


The Storm in Your Blood

by cicatrix (nematode)



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (yes I did in fact drop all 23 chapters of this on the same day), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Anders (Dragon Age) is Dead, Angst, Between Fenris and Lavellan (who cannot stand each other), Body Horror, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eating Disorders, Established Relationship, Gore, Gray Morality, Horror Elements, Hurt/Comfort, I promise this isn't 100 percent doom and gloom, M/M, My Hawke is an Appalachia-inspired craftsman who has absolutely no filter, My Lavellan is a whip-smart but conflict-averse stoner who did a mediocre job with the Inquisition, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV Alternating, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Problematic protagonists, Questionably unhealthy relationships, Racism, Sexual Slavery, Suicide, War Table Operation: Protect Clan Lavellan (Dragon Age) - Failure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 168,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28964826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nematode/pseuds/cicatrix
Summary: A year after the disbandment of the Inquisition, the Arlathvhen comes to the woods of Montsimmard.In exchange for removing the tattoos that are killing him, Fenris reluctantly agrees to protect Solas’s agents at the Dalish celebration — with Hawke by his side to help double-cross them in the end, of course.Merrill travels to the Arlathvhen to share the newfound truth of the Evanuris with her people, only to find them unwilling to listen to the pariah who caused the death of her Keeper.Though the festival is filled with reminders of his slaughtered clan, Nebel Lavellan attends to protect his people from Solas and stop them from learning the horrific history of their Creators.And a chance encounter between them all forces Nebel to face the truth of what it really means to love a former Ben-Hassrath.
Relationships: Fenris & Merrill (Dragon Age), Fenris/Male Hawke, The Iron Bull/Male Lavellan (Dragon Age)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are going to be many potentially triggering things in this. There is a long list of major content warnings at the **bottom** of this chapter.
> 
> **And a word on the content warnings:** please choose for yourself if this is something you want to read. If it helps, go ahead and assume that all of the things listed in the content warnings (both the tagged ones and the ones in the author’s note at the end) are mentioned multiple times, described in graphic detail, romanticized, show up out of nowhere, and handled indelicately (though, honestly, I’m going for a better-safe-than-sorry approach when it comes to warning people away). I won’t be doing any chapter-level warnings. There’s also going to be a lot of unhealthy/questionable behaviors and viewpoints that aren’t necessarily endorsed or condemned in-text, and the characters are going to be darker than canon in many ways. Viewpoints held by characters don’t reflect my own. I wrote this largely to keep my mind busy throughout 2020 without much care for what others would think of it.
> 
> The [Dragon Age Wiki](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Dragon_Age_Wiki), [Project Elvhen](https://archiveofourown.org/series/229061), and [Dumped, Drunk, and Dalish](http://www.dumpeddrunkanddalish.com/) were all invaluable resources for this.
> 
> With all that said, this fic has been a year and a half in the making. It was a joy to write and I hope you enjoy it as well.

It’s a crisp, windy day in autumn when Fenris forgets Hawke’s name.

Fenris watches a decaying leaf break off a tree as he tries to recover his lost trail of thought. It hadn’t been anything important, just something interesting he wanted to mention to —

to …

Fenris curls his toes into the dirt. The name clogs his throat; he can picture himself yelling it, hissing it, sighing it into the calloused hands of the man himself. But he moves his mouth, mirroring the memories, and nothing comes out. He wants to scream, and he’s not sure where to direct that anger, but he’s sure there’s something around that deserves it.

By the time the leaf hits the ground, the name is back.

The moment is so brief that it doesn’t feel real. If it were anyone else, anyone but _him_ , Fenris could discount the incident as a trick of the tired mind. But even those few seconds leave him hollow, emptied out by the knowledge of what it will feel like to lose yet another memory — and this time, it’s one he damn well wants to keep. The magisters already stole sixteen years from him; he will not forfeit another minute. For the first time in his life, he’s found a form of happiness he fits into, and he has no plans to let that go.

He takes off running, limbs pushing against the wind, barreling his way back to the cabin they’ve taken shelter in long enough to call it home. All he sees is a wash of brown and green. The details of the forest smudge together like wet paint run through by a vindictive hand, but he doesn’t need them; he doesn’t care, the only thing that matters is —

Outside the house, where smoke rises from the rundown chimney, Fenris throws down his sword and takes a deep breath into his burning lungs.

He yells, joyous and fierce:

“ _Hawke!”_

The door swings open, and there he is, sword and shield raised. Ready for a fight, as always — and though Hawke drops his sword when his eyes land on his visitor, Fenris plans to give him one anyway.

Fenris sweeps his arms open and crouches into a braced position. A crooked smile breaks out across Hawke’s face, and he whoops a battle-cry before tossing aside his weapons to rush forward and tackle Fenris to the ground. Fenris grunts and manages to shove a knee under and up into Hawke’s abdomen, using that split second of surprise to roll out and pin Hawke beneath him.

They laugh and growl and roll in the dirt until the sun starts to set, golden over the fallen leaves.

He won’t forget again.

* * *

Hawke always smells of smoke. In Fenris’s memories, the man is never far from a flame — whether he’s whittling next to a fireplace, stretching his toes out to a dwindling campfire, or standing in the center of a city burning to the ground.

Today, the scent makes Fenris’s mouth water. Smoke curls up and around the carcass of a wild boar before trickling into the evening sky. The second Fenris had suggested they stay at this camp for a few days, Hawke had gone giddy and set up a pit for cooking. Fenris pauses in unlatching the horses’ saddles to appreciate the sight of Hawke prodding the fire with a freshly carved skewer. Wandering around with Hawke, he never goes hungry. Ferelden food may primarily consist of bland mush, but Hawke sure knows how to cook a slab of meat.

“Is the smoke getting to your head?” Fenris hears from behind.

He raises an eyebrow as he looks to Hawke. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been staring at the horse for a solid ten minutes.”

Fenris rolls his eyes. “Simply taking a moment to think. Try it sometime.” He gets a chuckle and a twig thrown vaguely in his direction.

He turns back to the mare and the buckle and strap tangled around his fingers. And it’s strange — he must have done this hundreds, thousands of times before, but he can’t remember what to do next.

His fingers shake. He lifts his left hand and pulls his right hand away and that’s … that’s not it. He jerks the strap up, looking at the underbelly for answers, frustrated that none of this — why doesn’t any of this make any sense?

“You alright?”

“The south has some damn strange saddles,” Fenris mutters.

He hears Hawke’s sudden pause more than he hears him get up. Hawke is silent in that particular way where he hasn’t run out of things to say — Hawke never does, honestly — but where he’s biting his cheek to keep from saying all that’s in his head.

Fenris jumps, only the slightest bit — really, just a flinch — when Hawke places a hand on his back.

“I’ll get the horses, Fen. You keep the fire going, alright?”

Fenris watches Hawke pull the saddles off the horses in no more than three swift movements. The same saddles they’ve had for years.

Later that night, Fenris slips out of their tent and buckles and unbuckles the same straps in a frantic cycle, fingers going number against the cold leather, only stopping once the horses’s stomping threatens to wake Hawke.

* * *

There are three ways that Fenris has learned to spot a slaving caravan: for one, they always look ordinary to a fault. All the better to avoid the eyes of nosey passersby; all the better to be indescribable to the authorities that occasionally pretend to care enough to investigate.

Secondly, slavers are always checking on their _merchandise_. Hawke calls it the “slaver shuffle” — the side-to-side fidget and scan of their surroundings before tucking their heads into those covered wagons.

And lastly: slavers run when they see Fenris. He’s developed a bit of a reputation.

Fenris raises his palm, arm bent at a right angle. Hawke comes to a stop beside him.

About thirty yards ahead is a simple wagon, big enough for at least three cages under its tarp. Four, if they’re of the particularly cruel sort. A woman and a man flank its sides, both dressed in plain dark clothes. Fenris doesn’t miss the way they keep peeking under the tarp or the sudden jump in pace once they’d noticed they had company.

The noise that keeps coming from under their wagon makes Fenris’s stomach churn. One second it sounds like a growl; the next, a moan. Hawke remains peacefully oblivious. It’s those human ears. Hawke’s the only reason Fenris even half-believes those notions.

Most damning of all, the woman by the wagon keeps looking back at him with glances that make Fenris's skin prickle. Even if the man doesn’t recognize him, she certainly does. Fenris figures they have until the next bend in the road before the bastards either take off or try to spring an attack.

“Slavers,” Fenris says.

“Oh, shit.” Hawke scowls. “I never would've guessed. Nice catch, Fen.”

Fenris isn't surprised that Hawke can't pick up on all the signals, even after dozens of encounters just like this. Hawke is amazing in hundreds of ways, but he's not so great at noticing the details.

“Let's pick up the pace. We'll give them a surprise when we're closer,” Fenris says. Hawke matches his speed, the quickest walk they can manage without attracting any premature attention.

The timing works out better than Fenris ever could have imagined. In the few minutes it takes to catch up to them, the two slavers don’t look back once. Inexperienced, then. Any slaver with more than two southern runs under their belt wouldn’t dare take their eyes off the “lyrium ghost” for even a second.

But even newcomers can’t mistake the sound of a sword being unsheathed. Fenris grips his blade in both hands as the slavers whip their heads around. The man’s face drops into slack-jawed terror. Then, he bolts. Fenris trusts Hawke to take care of that.

The woman watches her partner disappear into the woods. Fenris sees the moment she realizes she’s alone in this fight. The terror that she might face something akin to what she’s doomed these elves to. It makes his heart swell.

She reaches for her belt, stark-white fingers wrapping around a short dagger — hardly more than a paring knife, but that’s all he needs to see to lunge forward.

“Wait!”

Fenris doesn’t have time to react to Hawke’s yell before he’s knocked face-down into the dirt, sword slipping out of his grasp. He struggles and kicks and shoves before he realizes the hand wrestling his own into the ground is one he knows.

“What are you doing? Get _off_ of me, Hawke!”

Hawke does, but the woman has already ran. Fenris jerks upright. Anger pulses through his markings, hot as the sun on steel. He wants to jump up, grab his sword, chase down both slavers to put an end to their miserable existence, but more importantly —

He turns to Hawke, ready to demand an explanation, but Hawke’s face stops him. He kneels beside Fenris, sword still sheathed, hands on his knees. There’s no fury on his face. No, Hawke just looks down, eyes glossed over in a sadness that Fenris doesn’t understand.

“Those weren’t slavers, Fenris.”

“What?”

“They’re nugg-raisers.”

_“What?”_

Hawke stands, wiping his muddied hands on his pants. Blood pounds in Fenris’s ears as he watches Hawke pull back a section of the wagon-cover where the thread has come undone and the fabric hangs loose.

There are cages underneath. But there’s too many, each too small for even a child. Fenris feels himself rise to his feet. Distantly, he knows that Hawke’s hand is on his shoulder as he approaches the wagon.

A nugg stares up at him and squeals.

“You must've mistaken the noise for … well, you know. Probably were moving around a lot under here too.”

“That can’t be.“

He was sure of it. The signs were all there.

Fenris tastes vomit on his tongue. He sees his sword covered in blood. The corpse of an innocent woman on the ground. Just a few seconds later and …

Fenris wants to tear the wheels off the wagon. His fists press into his eyes until he sees nothing but red.

He’s never made a mistake like this before. And he will not again.

“They're alright, Fenris. I'm sure they're just a little scared. You wait here,” Hawke says, offering a smile that Fenris _knows_ is fake — it's the smile Hawke puts on when he's talking them out of rough situation, and Fenris wishes he could wipe it off his face and oh, he just wants to _scream_. “I'll go find them and apologize. Can't have made it too far.”

Hawke takes off at a trot. Fenris turns his gaze to the cages and watches a nugg spin in circles before settling down to sleep, only to get back up and spin once again. Fenris tangles his fingers in the metal rungs and stares down at the stupid things. A pair of tiny beady eyes blink up at him, and he wonders if there's anything behind them.

* * *

Fenris glowers at the campfire, squeezing the tin cup of liquid between his numb fingers to resist the urge to throw it against a tree. The sight of metal crumpling and icicles shattering might bring him some comfort now, but he knows he’d regret it in the morning. Hawke would inevitably offer him the one remaining cup and volunteer to drink tea straight from the pot.

Their evening tea ritual started years ago in an effort to resist reaching for a bottle of wine before bed. This particular blend tastes like mint and spindleweed, supposedly concocted specifically to help with sleep.

Fenris doesn't miss how Hawke brewed it extra strong tonight. It doesn't help.

Hawke sits with his head cradled in his own gloved hand, looking a minute away from drifting off. “Go to bed, Hawke,” Fenris mutters.

“Not … urgh.” Hawke cringes as he wipes drool from his hand. “Not 'til you do.”

“So that we'll have two useless people tomorrow, instead of one? A brilliant plan.”

“Come on. Pretty please? You know I can’t relax without you talking in your sleep next to me.”

“Don’t guilt me, Hawke.”

Hawke hangs his head, but he stays where he is. His adamance grates at Fenris’s already exhausted nerves. And yet, as much as Fenris would like to pretend that he’d be more pragmatic than Hawke, he can’t imagine himself behaving any differently if their positions were reversed. So he sighs and leans his head against Hawke’s shoulder, breathing in the smell of smoke and sweat.

He hears something. When is he ever not hearing things? Sometimes it's a whisper; sometimes the crack of a whip. Tonight, it’s the growl of some unimaginable creature.

“It's not real,” Hawke whispers, bringing a hand to rest over Fenris’s ear. It must have twitched.

“Don't doubt that I know that, Hawke.” Fenris wraps his hand around Hawke's and returns it to Hawke's knee. “But on the chance that it is? If I covered my ears and went back to sleep, telling myself it's not real, and something came after you? I wouldn't be able to forgive myself.”

Hawke squeezes his hand. A mass of snow falls from the pines above them. Fenris looks at the fire, atop a pile of ash from the bundle of wood it's already burned through, and says, “This was never meant to last, was it?”

“What are you talking about?” Hawke tosses a stick into the fire. The flame devours it in seconds.

“They knew the lyrium would kill me. And then what? Drain it from my corpse and subject some other elf to this?”

Hawke tenses. Hawke's known exactly what this is, Fenris _knows_ he has, but it's the first time either of them has said it out loud, and suddenly: it's real. It's like Fenris has cut the ropes of the stone that's been hanging above their heads, bringing down that weight to crush them both.

“I was always going to be used up.”

“We'll fix this, Fen,” Hawke says, with all that reckless determination that makes him Hawke, but Fenris knows it’s no more than a delusional lullaby. He curls into his side anyway and sips the tea that's gone cold.

* * *

Fenris and Hawke call their shared home “The Estate,” as if it's anything more than a shack they found in the woods. They’ve patched up the holes in the roof, cleared out the chimney, and, most importantly, fixed the door's lock. But they're on the road so much that it’s not worth the effort to do anything more.

Hawke says he prefers it this way. He's done the whole estate thing — _properly_ , with actual care and furniture, not like Fenris with his old mansion. Hawke says nothing feels emptier than a giant house. Fenris says nothing feels further from Minrathous than a shack in the mud.

Hawke slips out one morning just as the sun rises. Fenris sends him off with a grunt and rolls over to the warmer, softer side of the bed, determined to keep his eyes shut for another few hours. But the sun has started streaming in through the cracks where the logs in the wall don't quite line-up, and Fenris begrudgingly accepts the morning.

He fixes himself a cup of tea, the kind that tastes like ginger and makes waking up slightly more bearable. For once, there's nothing he _needs_ to do. The list of things he wants to do will be empty until this tea kicks in.

The chest they keep in the corner catches his eye. Fenris figures that now is as good a time as ever to actually attempt to read that novel Hawke lugs around. He swears it’s better than Varric's drivel, but Fenris has his doubts. He unlocks the chest with the key from his traveling pouch and lifts the dusty lid. There's not much in it; a few other books, some gold, the sentimental trinkets that Hawke just can’t part with — but most of Hawke's belongings were left behind, burned up as they’d fled Kirkwall.

Fenris lifts the book out, brushing off the surprisingly light amount of dust from its cover. Fenris prefers works on history and craftsmanship over this sort of fiction, but he'll give it a chance if it will truly make Hawke happy.

The lid is already half shut when Fenris notices something off about the spot where the book lay. He doesn't remember everything that's usually in the chest, but he thinks he'd remember a stack of envelopes, each one in a different style, each one torn open. He sets the book down and lifts the lid back up. He reasons that this isn’t any violation of Hawke’s privacy, as the envelopes aren’t really locked away. They do both have keys to the chest, even if Fenris never uses it. And if Hawke actually wanted to keep something secret from him, he'd surely come up with a more clever hiding place.

A thought pops into his head with that same prickling doubt that eats at him more and more nowadays: maybe they’ve always been there. Maybe they’re just one more familiar thing that’s slipped through the cracks.

He takes them out. There's at least ten, each addressed to the owner of the nearby tavern. Hawke had struck up a friendship with her and then later a deal to accept letters on his behalf. They are still technically on the run, after all.

Fenris can’t place why, but his throat tightens as he slides the first letter from its envelope. The handwriting is full of loops and stretched out letters, lovely to look at but difficult to read. Fenris isn't surprised to see Merrill's name adorning the bottom.

_Hello, lethallin,_

_Has this reached you alright? I suppose it must have, if you're reading it now. If not, well, hello stranger, please go ahead and … burn this, I suppose._

_Oh, Hawke. I hardly know what to say. Poor, dear Fenris._

Fenris’s breath catches.

_I've never liked lyrium, truthfully. I've only tried it in emergencies. Like that time the dragon nearly bit your head off. You remember that, right?_ _But the Arlathvhen is happening in just a few moons, and certainly one of the Keepers will know what to do. I will ask around._

Fenris drops the letter. The next one rips at the bottom as he yanks it from the envelope.

He doesn't need to look at the name to recognize Varric's hand.

_Fuck, Hawke._

_Lyrium is … it's a damn nightmare. I'd take a knife in the gut over lyrium poisoning._

_You two don't deserve this._

The words mix together into an indecipherable mess. He lets the letter fall between his fingers and makes a blind grab for another.

_Hello, Champion Hawke._

_I realize I am likely the last person you'd like to hear from. I know you (quite understandably, I recognize) do not have the best impression of Altuses. But the Inquisitor reached out to ask if I knew anything, and I hardly saw the point in delaying this message by writing you indirectly._

_I've studied this in passing over the years. Why do the dwarves have such a strong resistance? Why do mages crumple under it so easily?_

_There is so much unknown, but what we do know is that is that it somehow blurs the Veil. Not unlike magic itself, it distorts our reality. It's connected to both our world and the Fade, and for those of us who are more connected to the other side, well. It's like we're being pulled apart._

Fenris's heart pounds against his ribs. He doesn't want to keep reading, doesn't know if he's even capable of it, but he still picks up one more with shaking hands.

_Hawke,_

_I am glad you reached out, but sorry you had to. Breaking free of lyrium may have been one of the most trying experiences in my life. I can only imagine the pain of being bound to it._

_Unfortunately, I can only offer hospice. Recovery requires withdrawal, and I understand that in your case, that’s not possible._

_Sleep helps. He will struggle with quiet. His brain will fill in the silences. Try to keep some noise around at all times. If he starts seeing things, pray to the Maker for another year. When he starts believing them, it’s best to enjoy the months you have left._

_Most importantly, take time to remind him who he is. Once that's gone … I know this is hard to hear, Hawke, but please know that he's welcome here._

Fenris’s markings burn through him, illuminating the ink even as he can't make out another word. Rage pulses behind his eyes. Does the whole world know he's losing his mind? Is he just to suffer their pity while he wastes away?

He wants to blame Hawke, to chase him down and scream until his throat is raw, but there's a piece of him that _understands_ , that wants _more time_. That damn piece of him that makes everything more complicated.

He takes the letters and tears them to shreds, letting the scraps fall around him.

* * *

Fenris finds himself in the Hanged Man and knows he’s dreaming.

Without a doubt, it’s the rundown bar he once spent countless hours in. Their usual table is exactly as he remembers, from the corner where Isabela carved a lewd image to that uneven edge that would always jab Anders in the hip, much to Fenris’s satisfaction.

But the rest of it is off. The corners of the room are blurry and dark, and the chandeliers twist if he stares at them too long. The side of the bar he could see from his seat at their table is detailed and colorful, standing in stark contrast against the desaturated, fuzzy side of the room that was always at his back.

_I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do._

Hawke’s voice comes from every corner of the room.

“Is this some sort of trick?” Fenris snaps to no one in particular.

_You need to let me handle this._

And that’s his own voice echoing his words from only hours ago, a memory so fresh that he can still remember every second of the conversation — which is growing far less common nowadays. At least his usual drink is still in his usual spot. Everything else about this hurts his head, but that’s one piece of familiarity he can focus on. He strides over and takes a seat.

_I can’t lose you, Fen. I can’t._

He’s not doing this. Against his better instincts, he takes a gulp of from the glass and slams it on the table. The ale tastes like nothing. It’s strange, because that grimy taste is one of the strongest memories he has of this place. There’s something comforting in the fact that even the Fade can’t fool all of his senses.

As he finishes the tasteless ale, the glass refills itself. He waits for this to be over.

It’s after the second drink that a presence emerges behind him. He knows it’s not one of the faceless dream figures that mull around the edges of the bar; those things don’t make his markings feel like they’re being pricked with needles. Even in the real world, only the most vile of mages ever have this effect on him.

He turns over his shoulder, ready for a fight.

He’s certain he’s never seen this elf in the Hanged Man before, let alone anywhere else. The man wears a long green coat, lined in white fur, and stands with his hands behind his back. Fenris can’t place his age — no hair on his head, but no wrinkles on his scowling face. He carries himself like he both owns the place and considers it beneath him.

“Who are you?” Fenris asks.

“I do suppose introductions are in order,” the elf says, too slow for Fenris’s liking.

The elf walks around Fenris to the other side of the table, seconds between each footfall. He doesn’t sit. Fenris sneers, but chooses not to stand. He’s not intimidated by someone standing over him, and he’s not going to pretend like he is.

“My name is Solas. You may be more familiar with me as the Dread Wolf.”

_Oh,_ Fenris thinks. _That asshole_. It’s offensive that he’d think Fenris would know him better as some Dalish legend rather than as the madman conspiring to destroy the world. The former Inquisitor had sent a letter to Hawke a year ago with a description of the impending danger and a plea to watch his back, though it had oddly come across with a tone more solemn than panicked. The letter had asked Hawke to keep an eye out for strange movements, but to take no more action than that yet. Foolish. As much as Fenris hates the idea of yet another institution vying for power, disbanding the only army large enough to sway this fight was a shortsighted tactic.

In fact, Fenris can’t imagine having an army at his disposal and _not_ using it to hunt down this egomaniac. “Let me out of here,” he says.

“I cannot. This is your own dream, after all.”

Solas speaks like a magister. Every one of them would talk like they’d long ago memorized the secrets of the universe and the rest of the world was full nothing more than ignorant, babbling children.

“Great,” Fenris says. “All the more reason for _you_ to leave.”

Solas smiles like he feels sorry for him. “I will leave you be in time. We have some matters to discuss.”

Fenris understands the danger he’s in. He wants to reach across the table and grab the man’s throat, but his instincts scream at him to run. Against both instinct and desire, he finds himself still sitting there, fists clenched under the table. Fenris gets the impression that he couldn’t run even if he tried. He wonders if stabbing himself in the hand would wake him up, or if Solas would just keep him there and make him bleed.

“Then get it over with.”

Solas lets out of a huff of air, and Fenris hopes it’s in offense. “Rumor of your condition has reached me.” He pauses, eyes flicking down to Fenris’s arms. “That’s quite a hardship to bear.”

Those stupid, pointless letters.

“I don’t need your pity,” Fenris spits.

“No, I suppose you don't. This type of injustice angers me, admittedly.” Solas speaks to the darkness over Fenris’s head. “A cruel caricature of a ritual of my people, one that never should have come to be.”

Fenris says nothing. He couldn't care less if it spits in the memory of some long-dead slavers.

“I know that they are killing you,” Solas says, eyebrows furrowing in a sadness that Fenris doesn't believe for a second.

“What does it matter to you? Had to come see this _caricature_ for yourself? I'm terribly sorry that my existence bastardizes your people’s work so much.”

Solas pauses, then nods with clear discomfort. “Forgive me. Perhaps that wasn't the best wording. I did not mean anything of the sort.” His unease gives Fenris as much satisfaction as he can feel while trapped in his head with a stranger. “I've removed markings of a similar sort. I am offering to do the same for you.”

The words take a second to settle.

In truth, Fenris doesn’t want his tattoos gone. In a situation like this, where his sword is nowhere to be found and he can smell magic tainting in the air of a strange place, his markings are all he has to protect him.

But if Solas knows a way out of this death sentence, he certainly wants to know it. There’s no chance of him ever letting the man’s magic anywhere near him, but if there’s a cure out there, then perhaps Fenris can make use of it on his own.

Begrudgingly, Fenris asks, “How?”

Solas shakes his head, and that same sadness from before creeps into his expression. “Believe me, this is not a magic that can be replicated. This is a process that only one of my kind could achieve, and I regret to say that I’m the last of us left in this world.”

Fenris doesn’t trust him, but he’s been given no reason to believe that’s a lie. “I presume you want something from me, then.”

“I’d like you to join me.”

Laughter bubbles up in Fenris’s stomach. He doesn’t let it show on his face. “Absolutely not.”

“I realize you're prone to quick judgments, but I'd encourage you to take a second to truly consider it.” Solas actually sounds irritated. That’s pleasing. “You could prevent these sorts of horrors from happening to others. No elf would ever be subjected to — ”

“No.”

Solas smiles anyway, much wider than before, and he really does remind Fenris of a preying wolf.

“Perhaps we can arrange some other sort of deal, then.”

Fenris rolls his eyes. There's always some other sort of deal.

“In two weeks, the Dalish will be gathering outside of Montsimmard for the Arlathvhen,” Solas says without prompting. “A festival where they ensure their way of living endures, despite every reason it should not.”

Fenris knows of it. It’s funny — his reasons for despising the thing are similar to Solas’s own, but Solas must be an idiot to not realize that he’d have more luck recruiting Fenris with an offer to keep that mess far away from him.

“Some of my assistants will be there. I could use your help protecting them.”

The irony stops being funny. Fenris can’t imagine where Solas got the impression that he’s stupid enough to even consider the idea.

He’s suddenly very, very tired of this.

“Get _out_ of my head.”

Fenris lunges at him and wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A non-exhaustive list of major content warnings (spoilers within):** suicide, gore, eating disorders, sexual slavery, nonconsensual drug use, body horror, racism, minor character death, ptsd, torture, trauma, horror, mage oppression, elf oppression, alcohol abuse/alcoholism, major character injury, substance abuse, relationship fights, recreational drug use, eye gore, body horror, self harm, break ups, suicidal ideation, slavery, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unhealthy relationships behaviors, forced prostitution, bad communication, choking, mutilation, homophobia, survivor’s guilt, sexist slurs, panic attacks, internalized racism, betrayals, descriptions of sex and cum but no smut, fade to black sex scenes, redemptions earned and unearned, darker versions of canon characters, anxiety, depression, entomophobia/insects, emetophobia/vomit, absolutely ridiculous amounts of blood, intrusive thoughts, flashbacks, dementia, stillbirth, unprocessed grief, cheating/affairs, blood magic, mental illness shaming, domestic violence, slut shaming, insensitivity towards mental illness, references to bdsm, references to consensual non-consent


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my other fics, _When the River Doesn’t Flow_ , can be considered canon-ish for this universe (the same elements of Lavellan/Nebel’s backstory referenced there will be in this fic too). I didn’t write this fic with the expectation that you’ve already read that other one, but it does provides some extra insight into his character if you find yourself interested in that.

Under a blazing sun, Nebel grips the tree branch above him with one hand and wishes he had another to wipe the sweat from his brow. His hair clings to his neck, dripping lake water down his back. He hasn’t bothered getting his clothes back on, and he relishes in the chill as the sun steals the water off his skin.

For a minute, he’s struck by the feeling of home.

“ _Damn_ , kadan,” Bull grunts. “That feels amazing.”

Nebel snaps out of his daze and digs his heel even deeper into Bull’s right shoulder in response. He shuffles over to the left, and Bull groans into the grass like he’s trying to scare off the few birds still around. He always overstrains that side.

“Think you can jump on it?”

Nebel laughs. “Absolutely not.”

The tree branch drooping over Nebel’s head thankfully holds in spite of his death-grip. He walks up and down Bull’s back, ignoring the sounds of creaking wood. It can survive another minute; it’s not like he’s a walking bag of muscle anymore.

“I’ve got to say,” Bull does, indeed, say. “Your balance is impressive.”

“The Chargers keep me on my toes.” Nebel bears his weight down into one of the more scarred sections of Bull’s back, pressing a content sigh out from his lungs.

“Should’ve recruited you earlier,” Bull says, and there’s no dirty whispers out there that could make Nebel flush nearly as red as those quietly proud words.

After everything had settled down — each loose thread of the disbanded Inquisition tied up, each heartfelt or tense goodbye said — Nebel had stared down at the lifeless courtyards of Skyhold and realized he had nowhere to go.

And as if he’d heard the thought, Bull had come up behind him, snaked an arm around his waist, and whispered, “Come with us.”

So Nebel takes the title of Charger and tries to do it justice. He helps where he can: planning strategy, negotiating deals, mixing potions, and occasionally shoving a knife in a gut when no one’s paying attention.

“Can’t we just stay here?” he asks as he steps off Bull to stretch out on his back beside him. “We can lay around and sleep in the sun all day.”

“Now you’re talking.” Bull rolls to his side and props his head up on his hand so his horns don’t hit the dirt. “I can’t remember the last time we had a whole month to ourselves. It’d be a shame to waste it.”

“Do you know how glad I am you that you were able to come?”

“Still sore from this morning, huh?”

Nebel laughs and slaps at Bull’s arm. “Hush.”

Up until his bag was packed, Nebel had planned on traveling alone. There’d been a hoard of ogres out in the Hinterlands causing havoc for some nobles — eating their horses, or something like that. The smartest of the humans in that area had known there was nobody better to hire for the task than the Chargers. And while Bull had insisted he could skip this mission — _I’d be a shit leader if my men weren’t trained well enough to handle this on their own_ — Nebel couldn’t forgive himself if he endangered the Chargers again. And how could he possibly deprive Bull of a well-deserved adventure, especially one apparently big enough to eat a horse?

So maybe Nebel could have brought Sera or someone, but he wasn’t about to bring an Andrastian to the Arlathvhen and spend the whole time defending his culture on top of everything else. Bull had made clear through all but outright stating it that he wasn’t comfortable with Nebel traveling alone yet, though he was less clear if that was because of the arm or —

Well. It doesn’t matter why.

At the last minute, they’d gotten word that a band of hunters had already taken care of the ogres, and their help was — _regrettably_ — no longer necessary. Of course the Chargers had been disappointed, but Nebel had nearly collapsed in relief.

Maybe he’d be more comfortable on his own if he knew the Arlathvhen from anything more than stories. Too young the first time, too defiant of Keeper Deshanna the second. He wonders, sometimes, why she chose him of all people to spy on the Conclave. What she’d said to his face was that he was the most likely to avoid detection and come home safely. What she’d said to her apprentices when she’d thought he was out of earshot was that he had something to get out of his system. He doesn’t know if that was his desire to see more of the world than the Dales, or his cravings for sex and new herbs to smoke, or if it was the restlessness that he’d carried for years.

He never got a chance to ask.

Bull reaches over to tug at Nebel’s ear. “We can turn back, you know. If you really don’t want to go.”

Nebel remembers to shake his head a moment later, even as all the dread in him tells him to nod instead. He _really_ doesn’t want to go, but Bull is wrong. They can’t turn back. “Not when Solas is bound to be there,” he mutters. The words taste like the bark of the southern oaks, chewed until bitter and acrid. He regularly thinks through every conversation he can remember with the mage and cringes at his ignorance for never having put the pieces together. “Honestly, though, I hope he isn’t. That’s not a fight we can win.

“Well, _I’d_ love to see him again,” Bull says. “Got a few choice words for that egg.”

Nebel’s smile is tight-lipped. “He doesn’t even need to be there to recruit. He’s come to my dreams before.”

Well, he came _once_. That one time had been enough for Nebel to stomp down to his room, still in his nightclothes, and demand he never do so again. As far he knows, Solas had remarkably kept that promise.

“Urgh, creepy. So, look for people who are spending too much time sleeping?” Bull claps his hand down on Nebel’s shoulder. “I think I’ve found my first suspect.”

“Maybe you’re right. We should try just keeping everyone awake all night. That could work.”

“Mmm. I have a few ideas for that.”

Nebel rolls until he can rest his head against Bull’s chest, and he lets out a sigh as the weight of an arm drapes across his back. He listens to Bull’s heartbeat, too slow and too strong to be hiding any of the same uncertainties he feels within himself.

Bull’s chest rumbles in his ear. “Are you worried about showing up with a Qunari?”

Nebel huffs an indignant breath. Maybe things were different years ago, back when he needed the world on his side. Now, all he needs is for Bull to know just how ridiculous that thought is. “I’m not ashamed of you. If they have an issue with us, fuck ‘em.” Nebel tilts his head back to look up into Bull’s bright, gray eye. “Remember,” he whispers as he stretches up to press a kiss against Bull’s jaw. “You’re my Bull.”

* * *

Nebel blows out a stream of smoke. It lingers long enough to remind him of the thread that would always stretch between himself and a rift, pulsing through him like it was tied around his lungs. But the smoke fades away without any explosions or demons, leaving behind only the scent of freshly unearthed elfroot to burn in his nose. He rests his pipe in his lap as he tips his head against a tree and admires the back of his eyelids.

It’s a simple pipe, made from olive wood. He’s held onto it for all these years not because it’s particularly high quality, but because it had been a gift from Sera. He’d shown up at the Herald’s Rest one night, red in the eyes and sluggish in the limbs, and Sera had made him laugh until he cried with her stories of pranks that he’d otherwise find … questionable. She’d claimed to be happy to have someone who finally appreciated her work, and Bull had just chuckled in the corner as Nebel lost it.

A week later, Sera had tossed him the pipe, saying she’d found it at a market and thought of him, _or whatever._

The grove of pines Nebel found to relax under is a couple minutes from camp, where the smoke can enjoy a nice climb from the lake’s shore up the sides of the cliff. Montsimmard is up there, the city nearly tipping over the ledge. And to the east, the Arlathvhen. Supposedly.

He’ll return to Bull in a few minutes. He doesn’t want to disturb; Bull claims he doesn’t judge or mind the smell of elfroot, but he’s made clear he has zero interest in participating. Bull says is liquor one of his oldest friends, a faithful one who holds no surprises. _Not like some weird southern herb._

“Hey.”

He looks up, and Bull is there. Huh. When did that happen? He’s like a tree that sprouted from Nebel’s thoughts of him and somehow grew to its full height in a manner of seconds.

“Hello,” Nebel drawls to the handsome tree.

“So, what’s the plan for tonight?”

“Hmm?”

“We plannin’ to politely introduce ourselves? Sneak in? Make a grand entrance?”

Oh.

Nebel runs through those ideas, but no, none of them will work. He doesn’t know how the Dalish will react to him showing up unexpectedly. He doesn’t want to attract a scene, but trying to sneak past a Dalish watch will end up with an arrow in his neck; he’s been the one with the bow enough to know that. And it’s not like they can simply fight their way through if things get hostile, but they also can’t just —

Nebel takes another drag from his pipe. “What do you think we should do?”

“I’ve got my own ideas, but you’re the one who knows this crowd. Considering the last intel I got said this would be in Halamshiral, and now we’re here outside Montsimmard, well … Not trusting those sources again.”

Nebel snorts. Ten years ago, the elves at the last Arlathvhen had chosen Halamshiral as the location, and the rumor had spread in whispers and letters. He couldn’t count the number of nobles, templars, and city elves who had asked if he’d be going to that _thing_ at Halamshiral.

Except if anyone were to go to Halamshiral now, they’d find only a handful of well-equipped Dalish biding their time and speaking no secrets. The real decision had been the star formation to follow, and even that was shared only amongst the Keepers and their apprentices. On the sixth year’s winter solstice, the Keeper of each clan would find it in the sky and consult the mapping of cities to stars that they’d memorized long ago as part of their training.

Keeper Deshanna had broken the rules and shared the location with him just before he’d left for the Conclave, in case the clan needed to move on before he’d found his way back.

_If anything happens, lethallin, find us there._

“I need to think on it more,” he says. “We can just go tomorrow.”

“Cutting it awful close like that.”

He’s right, and Nebel regrets telling him that he wanted to be there a day early. Solas could already be there, planting traps as they speak. His agents could be laying the groundwork for something horrendous, and now would be his best chance to stop them.

“It’ll be fine. Let’s go swimming instead.”

Bull looks skeptical. Annoyed, even. Shit.

“Come on,” Nebel insists. “We can fuck in the water. That’s always fun.” He extinguishes his pipe and leans forward to slide his arm up Bull’s leg. “You can pretend I’m like a … a merman you’ve caught, or something.”

“There is no way you can fuck and stay afloat right now. Not even you’re nimble enough for that.”

“Not with that attitude.”

Nebel can feel Bull sizing him up, as if he’s debating whether Nebel has a clear enough head to actually follow through. Nebel straightens his back and tries to narrow his pupils, before he realizes he doesn’t have the muscles to do that.

“Alright,” Bull says with a smile that’s too tight, but Nebel knows he can crack it open wide if given the chance. “Just don’t complain when your ass ends up full of lake water.”

“No promises.”

* * *

Nebel lolls his head against Bull’s thigh while the fire in front of them shoots sparks into the night. The crackling of the flames and Bull’s fingers in his hair pull him closer and closer to sleep. He sighs, his awareness sinking somewhere deeper and warmer with every second —

Bull bounces his thigh. Nebel snaps his eyes open.

“Oi. Sit up.”

Nebel groans, but lifts his head anyway. Bull tugs at his hair, weaving it into a five-plait braid. It looks as impeccable as any of the rest of his knot-work.

Nebel can, technically, still braid his own hair. But when he’s on his own, he rarely bothers. It’s one of the many things that used to be so simple and now just leaves him frustrated and longing to crawl back into bed.

He hasn’t found the limits of Bull’s patience when it comes to his arm, at least not yet. He thought he’d brushed up against them a year ago, back on the day when he’d stepped into the courtyards of Skyhold without his boots.

He’d claimed he was trying to reclaim his Dalish heritage now that he was free of the title of Inquisitor. But Bull didn’t buy it. Bull had let him spend the day freezing off his toes, narrowly avoiding nails as they disassembled the remaining structures of the castle, and then came to him in his room with tea and as much time as he could ask for. He’d sat by his side as Nebel finally learned to lace his shoes with one hand, and Bull had confided in him that for months after he lost his eye, he hadn’t been able to pour a glass without making a complete mess. So he’d made Krem fetch all his drinks, claiming that it was a rite of passage for all new Chargers.

It was one of the first times Nebel had laughed since the palace.

He can feel that Bull’s almost done with the braid. Fifteen minutes is far longer than Bull usually takes. Nebel wonders if he’s also having trouble staying awake, or if something else has him stalling. And he has one idea in particular of what that _something_ could be.

“Are _you_ worried about us showing up there?” Nebel asks.

“You think I’m scared of a bunch of old people telling campfire stories?” Bull snorts. “Nah.”

It’s too nonchalant. Nebel could have bought it if Bull had admitted even a little of the worry he can feel in his restless hands. Bull’s fingers brush against what remains of Nebel’s right ear as he pulls a stray lock of hair into the braid. A shiver runs down Nebel’s spine, but he won’t let that distract him.

“Bull.” Nebel tips his head back as much as he can to peer up at Bull’s face. “I want your honest opinion on this.”

Bull doesn’t defend his words, but he also doesn’t say anything else. Nebel stares down Bull from below, searching for any sign of the truth in the lines around his mouth or brow. But both of them have well-established reputations of never shrinking under eye contact, which can make for unsettlingly long moments of silence and staring.

Nebel is the one to break and speak again. “I don’t have a full plan here. If you think I’m fucking up, I want to hear it.”

Bull shuts his eye, and Nebel knows he’s struck his target. But he softens as Bull’s expression falls. Oh sweet, precious Bull. He reaches up to stroke Bull’s stubbly chin, as if he can smooth that frown away.

“It’s fine if we disagree. It’s fine if you tell me things I don’t want to hear,” Nebel whispers. “I want to know what you think.”

Bull doesn’t wear his struggles like most people. He’s not the sort to quiver a lip or dart his eyes around in time with the many thoughts he’s weaving in his head. But Nebel sees his inner turmoil in the blank slate that his face becomes, like a stone without any cracks.

Unity brings peace. Unity sorts through the chaos. Dissent is the blade that picks apart the stitches. Nebel knows he’ll never fully grasp the ideas of the Qun, but he tries to understand, if just to be able to give Bull more of what he needs.

“I think it’s a recipe for disaster,” Bull finally says. “As much as I’d _love_ to smash Solas’s head into a rock — ” Bull pauses, and Nebel knows he’s picturing every bloody detail. “You’re gonna piss a lot of people off.”

It’s not a revelation, even if Nebel hates to hear it.

“Solas knows you’re one hell of a controversial figure. The last clan we ran into …” Bull trails off. He doesn’t need to say anything else.

Nebel looks to the fire. There’s always some naive part of him that is excited to see other Dalish out in the world. As if a few halla and songs in his own tongue could do anything for him.

They had heard of what happened to his clan, or at least some version of the story. And though her face is gone from his memory, he can still hear the biting words of their First as she’d told him the truth of what she thought of the Inquisition’s figurehead, Dalish only in name and tattoos.

“You’re going to divide people, and Solas will use that chance to unify people under him.” Like so many times before, Bull manages to pull the worries straight out of his head and shape them into tangible words.

Nebel’s throat is dry as he speaks. “Thank you, Bull. You’re right.” He rests his head back on Bull’s thigh. “But I still need to go.”

If Solas comes to them and offers the change that Nebel wasn’t able to give, he’ll end up with an army in no time. Nebel imagines a crowd of Keepers gathered around Solas, readying to return home to their clans and deliver his message. It wouldn’t be long before the scattered would flock to him, creating an army of the most powerful, influential elven mages, all bound together in the name of tearing apart the world.

“What do you think is going to happen if we fail?” Nebel asks. “Who do you think will be left?”

“Hopefully you. Me. The Chargers. Whoever makes that Orlesian cheese with all the nuts in it.”

“I’m sure he’ll consider that,” Nebel says, but he can’t find it in him to smile. “I don’t know how he’ll recruit anybody unless he plans to save at least the elves.”

“I think he’ll tell his cultists whatever they want to hear, and then kill us all in one fell swoop. Elf or not.”

Nebel doesn’t like how easily the words settle into him, fitting into everything he knows of Solas without any of the friction of a lie.

“All the more reason we can’t turn back, I suppose. I need to know who I can trust from now on,” Nebel says. “If Solas has agents, I need you there to sniff them out. You’re always better at seeing through lies than me.”

“Didn’t see through Solas.”

Nebel wraps his hand around Bull’s wrist and fervently shakes his head. It makes him sick to his stomach to think of that regret living inside Bull, even just as a passing thought. “He was more careful around you. You were the smartest of us. Easily his biggest threat.”

Bull doesn’t speak. Nebel doesn’t let go of his wrist. He can wait. He watches the smoke rise into the air and can nearly taste blackberry wine in his throat as he remembers sitting with his clan after long days around a fire just like this one.

After a quiet few minutes, long enough for Nebel’s eyes to begin to droop, Bull pulls his hand away. He lifts a stone from the ground and tosses it into the fire, disturbing the shape of the flames for a moment before it’s swallowed whole.

“Yeah, well, we’ll get him this time,” Bull says, and it makes Nebel smile — not because he believes it, but because he loves Bull’s undying confidence. “I’ve got your back.”

“I know, vhenan,” Nebel whispers, leaning away from the fire and into Bull’s warmth instead.

* * *

It’s been five months and eight days since the well went silent.

But back when it would speak, it never did feel quite … _right_. The voices of the vir’abelasan would twist together words in phrases without beginnings or ends, like echos bouncing around walls. Sometimes, it would respond to Nebel’s questions in images — glimpses into memories that weren’t his own, plagued by unfinished details. He’d get visions of people and places he’d never seen but knew were distorted, like watching a version of reality that had gone sick.

Now, he may as well have never drank from it. At most, he’ll get a flash of an image or a distant whisper that’s drowned out by a deafening silence as soon as he realizes the thoughts are not his own. It’s a relief, usually. A crowd of ancient elves in his head is too much for him to handle. Other times, it feels like a waste. When he’d woken up that morning and realized that the silence in his head was there to stay, he’d had one thought: he should have let Morrigan drink from it. She wouldn’t have let this happen. Millenia of knowledge gone, just like that.

But he still tries. He conjures up a portrait of Fenris, a man he’s only ever read about in Varric’s books and the letter he holds in his lap. Well, there was also Hawke’s gushing about his handsome, incredible partner on the road to Adamant. Nebel imagines how Fenris’s markings must look, something akin to vallaslin but tainted that eerie color of lyrium. He pictures this man tracing a finger up the markings on his forearm and waits to see if the well will speak.

The well makes Fenris’s markings explode out of his skin in a spray of blood and lyrium.

Nebel yelps and opens his eyes. He tries to focus them on anything in the tent, anything _real_ , but it’s like he’s stared too long into the sun and the world is covered in red and silver splotches.

The well doesn’t like him very much.

“Breathe, kadan.”

And then Bull’s hand is in his hair, combing through it with firm fingers as the man sits by his side. _Breathe_. Bull’s taken to saying that whenever Nebel drifts off too deep in his head. It’s come to mean so much more — a declaration of love and concern, wrapped up in a reminder that he does in fact still inhabit a body, and that body does still need to breathe.

“You were tryin’ to talk to that thing again, weren’t you?”

“It should know how to help, right? The ritual was based off one of theirs.” Nebel raises the letter from Hawke, trying not to let his fingers shake. He hasn’t written back yet, not wanting to say anything while there was still the possibility of distilling some answer from the well.

“What about all that you said about the voices? How they mess with your head?”

Bull’s never been comfortable with the well. He’d thought Nebel would use it to fight Corypheus and then let it go, as if killing the magister would cut off the strings of whispers that lingered on the edges of his consciousness. Bull must have forgotten that not everyone can seal away the thoughts they don’t have any use for into little chests in the dark corners of their mind. But Bull got what he wanted, eventually — though the man would never actually admit he’s glad for the well’s disappearance.

“I’m being careful about it,” Nebel insists. Bull’s touch on his head eases the gory memory out of his mind, mostly. “I’m the only one with this power. It’d be wrong to not use it to help.”

Bull drapes an arm across his shoulders and pulls him in close. Nebel’s eyelids droop, but he forces them open to avoid what he’ll see otherwise.

“I bet those Keepers are gonna cream their pants when they hear about this,” Bull says with a chuckle that blows across Nebel’s scalp.

“Bull.” Nebel frowns. “I’m not telling them.”

Bull raises his brows. “You sure about that?”

“Not a word to anyone, okay? Not about the well, not the Creators, not the vallaslin. None of it.”

Bull squeezes Nebel’s arm, just above where it ends. “I don’t know, kadan,” he says. “Open with that, and you won’t have any problems getting their attention.”

No. Nebel remembers in stark clarity the moment he’d learned the truth of their history. The anger, the shame, the grief that had hit him all at once and still comes back in waves any time he feels the urge to pray. Until the day he dies, he has no intention of inflicting that on anybody else.

“They don’t need to know,” Nebel whispers. “I can protect my people well enough without destroying their culture.”

* * *

“We are definitely going to be late,” Nebel mutters as he places a tentative foot on a piece of rock that looks like its been waiting for an excuse to crumble. The rock holds under his weight but shakes in protest. His chest presses into the stone in front of him as he releases his breath. Okay. So he may have underestimated how difficult it would be to sidle along the edge of a cliff over a fucking lake.

“I’d much rather see this surprise you’ve got for me,” Bull says, following close behind. “Whatever it may be.” Bull needs to be choosier about which footholds to use to support himself, but he also has the advantage of two arms to propel himself along.

“I feel like a drowned cat.” Nebel’s thankful the water is only a few feet below them, since he’s managed to fall back into it twice so far. The first time, he’d laughed as Bull rushed to pull him back out. The second time, he’d cursed up a storm, and Bull had been the one to laugh.

“It’ll be a good first impression. You look hot, all sopping wet.”

Nebel says, “See? Sticking around an extra day was a _great_ decision.”

The rock smooths out right before they reach a bend in a cliff, losing most of the jaggedness that had allowed them stable spots to stand. For a few minutes, the sound of the water shifting is the loudest noise around as they focus on finding their footing.

Every second brings them closer to the Arlathvhen. Every second gives him less time to prepare. But every second he’s not there is another respite from the dread in his chest.

The Arlathvhen will start that night, whether he’s there or not.

“I wonder who else will show up,” Nebel muses, to give himself anything else to think about. “Could be nice to see some familiar faces.”

“Like that old-ass elf from the temple?”

“Abelas? I doubt it. He hated the Dalish more than Solas, somehow.” Nebel takes a moment to gather his breath before hopping to grab a notch in the cliff above him. He manages to get a grip on it and swing his legs up to new footholds, but curses how much easier this looked from the shore.

“I invited Dalish, you know. She laughed in my face.”

“Can’t blame her,” Nebel says, envious. “Oh, Merrill, maybe? It would be nice to meet her in person. Maybe we can team up or something.”

He focuses on remaining steady, even as the distance between him and the water has grown to at least twice his height. If he fell at this point, he’d have a lot of swimming to do.

When he looks back, Bull has fallen behind. A blank look crosses Bull’s face as he stares out across the lake behind them. Nebel raises an eyebrow. “Don’t know if I like that idea,” Bull says.

“What, scared of a little blood magic?”

Bull grunts. “Yeah, you really have been talkin’ to that well too much.”

Except that he hasn’t, even if they both sometimes pretend that it hasn’t given him the cold shoulder. With a roll of his eyes, Nebel keeps climbing, and he hears Bull pick the pace back up behind him. After a few minutes, they come to a flat shelf in the cliff where they can finally stand on two feet without needing to cling to anything.

Bull stretches his arms to the sky and opens his mouth to speak just as Nebel presses a finger to his lips.

“Here’s what I wanted to show you,” he whispers. He motions for Bull to look up, where the cliff yawns open to form the mouth of a cave. It’s hard to tell from below, but it should be just tall enough for Bull to stand in. “It’s a deepstalker den. I saw it yesterday, when we were swimming out here.”

Bull looks up. Without much effort, he’d be able to pull himself and then Nebel up into the cave. Nebel knows there’s at least one creature in there — he’d seen it crawling around the day before, but he has no idea if it’s alone or got a herd with it.

“That ogre mission didn’t work out, and, well … I thought this might be fun. There’s usually a lot of them in this area,” he says in a rush, watching Bull’s face for any sort of reaction. “They like to live on the edges of the water, in these caves — it attracts prey.” And reckless men with little regard for safety, which he supposes is its own type of prey.

By all means, it would be smart to preserve their energy. Anything could happen over the next week, and they should be well-rested and ready for it. But Bull had seemed like he could use a fight, and the giant grin on his face makes it all worth it.

“They’re also, um. Well, don’t let the venom hit you. Unless you like being paralyzed.”

It doesn’t faze Bull. Of course it wouldn’t. A smile breaks out on Nebel’s face to match Bull’s own.

“But if you _do_ get hit, then … try to at least get a swig of this. We’d need its blood for a real antidote, but this should at least keep you on your feet.” Nebel passes Bull a small, corked vial of liquid from his pocket.

Bull’s fingers wrap around the glass and he holds it up for a closer look. In the sunlight, its green color glimmers and reflects off Bull’s gray eye like sea-glass over a rocky beach. Nebel’s heart swells as he watches the man he loves admire this little thing he’s made with such an enormous amount of pride.

“So that’s what you got up to this morning,” Bull says as he tucks it into his belt.

Nebel never goes anywhere without at least the staples needed for some quick potions. Finding the last few ingredients and brewing it was as easy as making tea.

He grins. “So. You in?”

Bull bursts out in laughter and pulls the axe off his back. “Fuck yeah.”

“This might be the stupidest thing we do on this trip,” Nebel says as he unsheathes his own dagger.

“Oh, I sincerely doubt it.”


	3. Chapter 3

Fenris spins an apple in one hand, his paring knife held in place with the other. Curled, red ribbons of skin fall to the floor as he twists the fruit around and around.

Hawke had come back to the Estate with a sack of apples hefted over his shoulder, declaring that it was “high time we got some apple butter ‘round here.” When Fenris had raised an eyebrow and told Hawke he had no idea why anyone would feel the need to ruin their butter with apples, Hawke had gasped and insisted they get started immediately. He’d sung the praises of this butter that apparently wasn’t really butter as he’d started searching for spices in the corner that they called the kitchen.

So Hawke had left to go get a pot heated, and Fenris had stayed indoors to peel the apples. It’s repetitive. Mindless. He just spins each one until it’s time to grab the next.

Hawke had that same excitement he always gets when he realizes he has the opportunity to introduce Fenris to something new. Fenris loves that about him: Hawke never teases him or treats him with pity for the things that life has never allowed him to experience. Every unknown is a chance for Hawke to share something in the world that brings him joy.

Three spins for a large apple. Two and a half for a small.

Fenris tries not to think of how he’d peel fruit in the past. Always in some corner with some needlessly ornate knife, a show of intimidation for an audience he wasn’t even allowed to look in the eyes. Look at that. Look at the powerful weapon, so strong but so tame, doing some mundane thing like peeling fruit for his master.

He twists the apple round the blade.

The knife is rather ordinary, worn down after years of use. The room is dirty and smells of soot, the sort of place Danarius wouldn’t dare to set foot in.

Fenris’s head feels hazy, like it always would when Hadriana denied him sleep. They must be traveling. He can’t remember where.

He tries to keep his fingers still. He doesn’t know why they keep shaking, but he needs to get through every apple before they get back. There’s no telling what will happen if he doesn’t. There’s a voice in the back of his head that tells him to stop, but he can’t, he doesn’t have time —

He twists and twists and twists.

His master will be back soon, and he’s not even halfway done. He starts cutting away the skin with frantic slices that graze his fingers, but that’s better than his back, or —

There’s a hand on his shoulder. An instinct he thought he’d locked away years ago makes Fenris whip around, slashing at the fingers with his knife. He sees blood. He shouldn’t have done that. There’s no telling if there’s enchantments on the door or something in his system that will have him asleep within hours. But there’s a strange, long-forgotten fury in him that sends him flying out of his seat and making a mad dash for the door.

This is his chance. If he’s lucky, this will all be over soon, one way or another.

“ _Ow._ ”

Fenris stops just as his hand touches the knob. He turns around.

There’s Hawke, standing in the middle of the room, fingers stuck in his mouth as a drop of blood trickles down his hand.

Fenris feels a scream well up in him, but his face is frozen in slack-jawed horror and he can't make his mouth move to get it out.

This can't happen.

He drops the knife. The wall slides against his back as he falls to the ground, one hand covering his mouth and the other caught in his hair.

He was _there_. He can't — he swore he'd never be there again.

Hawke is kneeling in front of him. He looks concerned, a little scared, and his knuckles are still stuck in his mouth, and _Fenris_ did that.

“Fenris?”

“Hawke,” he manages to gasp. “I'm so sorry, I was — “

Hawke speaks. It's muffled around his fingers. “Hey, it's all good. I gotta remember not to sneak up on you like that.”

“No, it's not … your hand, it’s — ”

“It's not so bad!” Hawke gives him a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “It's just like when we'd go crabbing down at the shore. They'd always get a little nick on me.”

Fenris knows Hawke is only trying to make light of it. But another drop of blood trails down Hawke's arm, and there’s nothing about this that’s _good_ or _alright_ or anything other than a nightmare.

A burst of energy surges through Fenris. His body wants to run. He wants to get out of here and hide away, where he can bury his shame and he has no chance of hurting anyone.

He won’t do that. At least not now, not yet, not while Hawke is hurt and he can still feel the weight of Hawke’s flesh against his blade. He uses that energy to instead jump up and find his pouch, where he knows there are bandages. He needs to stop the blood.

_When he starts believing them, it’s best to enjoy the months you have left._

Fenris wraps the bandages and swears he sees the words appear across them, written in the hand of the one person who’d know the stages better than anyone. There’s nothing left to _enjoy_ , not for someone like Fenris, not when the bandages keep tearing and a shadow in the shape of Hadriana is lurking in the corner.

He can't do this anymore.

* * *

The doorknob is cold. Dust floats in the light that streams through the gaps in the wood, the moon determined to be as bright as possible on the night when Fenris most needs darkness. Perhaps he should have cleaned before this; the dust has been waiting for months to be swept up by one man who has no attention for those things and another who sees every dirty speck and chooses to leave it out of spite. The door’s hinges groan with every failed attempt at turning the knob.

So this is what Hawke had felt when the Inquisition had summoned him away. Hawke had wanted Fenris safe at home, oblivious and impervious to all his terrible decisions.

Hawke had at least left a note.

Fenris grips the doorknob until his fingers hurt. He remembers those weeks of helplessness, clinging to that note as he’d chased Hawke down, long after the last of the ink had smudged into his fist.

Once he’d caught up to him, halfway across the world, he’d expected Hawke to grovel for forgiveness or attempt to defend himself. But even as Fenris had spent hours berating him, his tattoos shining like metal fresh out of a furnace and his fists bloody from pounding them against the wall, Hawke had just squinted up at him and said:

_I’m an idiot, Fen. I missed you every second._

It had taken countless nights of talking for Fenris to find a version of forgiveness that felt right to him. Hawke had sworn he’d never do anything like that again, so long as Fenris made the same vow. It had seemed like a pointless agreement at the time. But standing here, so close to the door that he can taste the salt that the night wind has carried in from the sea, he realizes that Hawke was right to be afraid.

“Don’t go.”

Damn these creaky floorboards they never bothered to fix. Damn the way his breath is catching at every strange sound and shadow that he knows only exist in his mind. Damn that bed that leaks heat as soon as a body leaves it.

“I’ll be more careful,” Hawke says, standing there in his nightclothes, hair sticking in all directions over his wide, red-framed eyes.

“You shouldn’t have to be.”

“There’s something out there, and we’re gonna find it, okay? Together.” Hawke steps forward and damn him, damn him, _damn him_ and his smile and his eyes and those teeth that the moon’s beams land on like they’ve finally found the treasure they’ve been searching for.

Weeks with little sleep has given Fenris plenty of time to take stock of his options. He could run. He could hide himself away until his mind is so far gone that he just wastes away, forgetting to eat, decaying in his own filth. He could surrender himself to that templar and be kept alive long past the point where he even knows his own name.

But he can't get the image of Hawke's blood out of his head. Or the vision of a terrified woman just trying to move nuggs into a city, struck down at random on the side of the road. This time it was only Hawke's fingers; but Fenris knows well what a slashed throat looks like, and it's easy enough to replace one dying face for another.

“I may know of one option,” he says, with eyes shut and the face of a wolf in his mind.

* * *

Fenris finds himself in a barren field that stretches to the ends of the world. He knows, somehow, that he could walk for the rest of time and see the same sights until his legs gave out. The sky is the color of Kirkwall’s sea. The dirt is the same brown as Hawke’s eyes. Fenris suspects this is on purpose.

He’s unsurprised to turn and see Solas there, hands clasped behind his back, looking as if Fenris had kept him waiting for hours.

“Hello again.”

Fenris grits his teeth and says nothing.

“I apologize for disturbing your sleep once more. You were rather unreceptive to my proposal the last time we spoke, but perhaps the circumstances of our previous meeting were … unfavorable.”

There’s nothing else to look at this time. There’s no tasteless beer to sip or faceless bartenders to watch mill about. It’s nothing more than two of them, face to face, surrounded by a void painted in the colors of Fenris’s home.

“If you leave in the morning, you can still make it there in time,” Solas says. He doesn't smile. There's a thoughtfulness tinged in either pity or grief or some other emotion that makes Solas look like he's watching someone die.

Fenris’s fingers twitch. He’d give anything for a chance to beat that smug sadness into the ground.

But when he looks at that dirt, he remembers Hawke. He remembers staring down at Hawke's sleeping form, unable to bring himself to join him in bed. Deep in his gut, he can still feel the sinking fear that he'd wake up next to a naked man, think he's back in Tevinter, and stab him in the neck.

So he'd slept at the table. Fenris knows his back will ache in the morning, but it was either that or not sleeping at all. He'd had a suspicion he'd meet Solas again when he finally shut his eyes.

_Come on, Fen. Just see what he wants._

“I'll hear out your deal,” Fenris says through gritted teeth.

Solas smiles.

“Thank you. You've made a wise choice; I will keep it brief, for both of our sakes,” Solas says. Fenris doubts that will be true. “Tensions have been high for the elves in the last few years. The Dalish are a people driven by emotion. Unwanted by their surroundings, resistant to change, and held back by their traditions.”

“I have no interest in a history lecture,” Fenris says.

“Fair enough. This is all to say: the Arlathvhen shall be a tenuous event. One wrong move could send it stumbling into chaos. But that’s unnecessary.” He pauses, giving Fenris a chance to react. He doesn’t. “Peace is possible. And that’s all I’m asking of you.”

“Say what you mean, or leave me be.”

Solas says nothing for a few seconds, as if he wants to be sure Fenris has had a chance to notice his displeasure. “Very well,” he finally murmurs. “I will have people working there. If you can keep them safe, I will remove your tattoos, and our business will be finished.”

“Do you expect me to work a bodyguard contract without even a name to work from?”

“We are rather new acquaintances, are we not? Just as you have little reason to trust me, I have little reason to trust that you won't take those names to someone who will endanger their lives.”

Disappointing. Fenris had hoped that something productive could come of this dream, regardless of his answer. He relishes in the thought of taking down a few of Solas’s cultists.

“I will say this.” Solas takes a moment to look to the side, as if there’s anything to see beyond dirt and sky. “You won’t be the only odd guest at this event. There are certain people there who want my colleagues dead. That should be enough information to suffice.”

It’s not. This whole plan feels like a bridge with too many missing planks to cross.

“Besides, try not to think of this as a _bodyguard contract_. Think of it more as a peacekeeping mission. Prevent bloodshed on all sides, and your job will be done.”

He doesn’t know what Solas is planning, but people don’t seek Fenris out for _peacekeeping_. Danarius made him what he is for killing, maiming, and scaring the Maker-loving shit out of people. He has no doubt Solas intends to use him in the same way.

_Whatever it is, we can handle it. Handled Kirkwall alright, didn’t we?_

No, they really hadn’t. But Fenris is familiar with this sort of person. A man so smug that he doesn't even bother to hide that he's underestimating Fenris — they always let their guard down and slip up eventually.

And maybe it's selfish, but he’s only just found a life he enjoys, and he can’t help but want more time.

“You have a deal,” he says through his teeth.

Solas smiles. The instincts that tell Fenris he’s offering himself up to a wolf refuse to be quiet, but he trusts that those same instincts will keep him safe, just as they always have.

He opens his mouth, hundreds of questions on his tongue, and wakes up.

* * *

“It should be right on down this way,” Hawke says. “If we're gonna be trusting random maps left on our doorstep.”

“I trust it as much as anything else going on here.”

Sleepless nights and a breakneck pace have led them to a rarely-used dirt road in the woods west of Montsimmard. They’d left their horses in the alienage in the northern quarter of the city, where ramshackle buildings overhang the rocky crescent of a cliff, a single gust of wind away from dropping into the emerald lake below. Fenris would have walked straight past the road nestled between two trees if not for the sparse map — spring comes quick here, apparently, and the ground is overgrown with shrubs and rotten autumn leaves that seamlessly blend the dirt of the road into the grass of the forest.

The sight of wheel tracks from those Dalish land-ships has Fenris certain that today will be the day that the pressure in his temples finally bursts. He both wishes there was more time to prepare and feels thankful that the time has come to get this over with.

“Still trying to come up with a plan?” Hawke asks, breaking Fenris out of his thoughts. He’d been just starting to consider the effectiveness of a smoke trap against an elf that can turn people to stone.

“Not all of us can talk our way out of every situation,” he responds.

“I _do_ have a quick tongue,” Hawke says with a wink.

“ _Some_ of us need to rely on actually thinking through things.”

“And a sword to the gut if that doesn't work out?”

“Exactly. If you truly must know, the extent of my plan so far is a fist to his face at the end of this.” Fenris's voice drops to a murmur. “And to spend as little time as possible talking to any of the Dalish.”

He’s not sure where the Dalish fall on his hierarchy of groups that leave a sour taste in his mouth; at some point, they’ve all just become different flavors of the same hatred. It’s their _pity_ he can’t stand. Every time he meets one of those forest elves, they give him sad glances and coddling words. He doesn’t want that from anyone, but the disgusting nature of it is compounded the fact that it’s for all of the wrong reasons. Pity for not growing up with the elven ways, pity for how he missed out on all the joys of a clan, pity for the mock vallaslin that “disfigures” him.

But when it comes to the horrors of being a slave? It's not pity. It's fear. He sees it on their faces, every time — the self-centered fear that someday it could happen to them.

Hawke doesn't acknowledge his words. Fenris knows that Hawke’s view of the Dalish is much kinder than his own.

“As much as I’d also like to beat in his face — be careful around Solas,” Hawke says, hushed, as if there's listening ears just off the road. “You know I have decent instincts. It's pretty much the only thing that's managed to keep me alive.”

“I'm aware.”

Hawke faces him, and Fenris is caught off-guard by the grave look in his eyes. “I had _no_ idea what he was. He was strange, sure, but — nothing. No clue he was up to anything.”

That’s … not a great sign. It made sense, then, how unsettled Hawke had been when Fenris had told him of his dream — though that discomfort had quickly changed to excitement when Hawke had realized the reward on the table.

“I'll be careful,” Fenris swears.

He’s being plenty mindful already, though Hawke doesn’t know the extent of it. While there’d been no more … _incidents_ during their journey, Fenris is reluctant to brush off anything that could bring Hawke harm. The delirium seemed to have come about from letting his mind to wander back to Tevinter, so he vows to not allow any more of that until this ordeal is over with. A simple task, really.

As the road narrows in, becoming more of a foot path than anything likely to be used by carriages, the hairs on the back of Fenris’s neck suddenly rise. He stops, arm swept out in front of Hawke, and waits.

This feeling never entirely goes away. He can’t remember a time in the last few months when he hasn’t felt like he’s being watched, tracked by shadowed figures and hidden eyes. Even in his dreams, he can’t escape them.

He hates this moment: the stretch of silence as he holds still, hoping Hawke still heeds his warning after all of the false alarms. Either he’s right and they need to handle whatever was senseless enough to follow them, or worse: he’s wrong, and he’s left to deal with the knowledge of how little time he has left.

“Hello, travelers,” a voice says from above, setting Fenris on edge but relieving that fear of being mistaken yet again. “Have you lost your way?”

It's not a friendly voice. There’s an undercurrent of a threat hidden under the kind words. Fenris looks up at the same time as Hawke, meeting the gaze of an elven archer perched in the branches of a tree to their right. Fenris sweeps his eyes over the rest of the canopy of trees; there's another elf in the same spot on the left side of the road. She's young and weaponless, but Fenris knows that's never a reason to assume someone isn't dangerous.

“Oh, thank the Maker!” Hawke bursts out, exaggerating his already thick Fereldan accent. “We've been like chickens without heads over here. All these trees look the damn same. If you could point us to the Arlathvhen, we'd be mighty grateful.” Every non-common word sounds jumbled in Hawke's voice, but _Arlathvhen_ sounds particularly strange on his tongue.

The two elves don't buy it. Fenris doesn’t know why Hawke’s instincts told him to make a joke.

The archer pulls his bowstring taut. “This isn't a showcase for shems. Leave us be.”

Fenris turns to the purple glow that flickers to life in his peripherals. The other elf's hands light up brighter than is necessary to actually cast a spell — Fenris has seen enough magic to tell that it's mostly for show, like a bird puffing its wings to seem bigger than it is. “The land here won't take kindly to uninvited guests,” the mage warns in quiet, punctuated syllables.

Fenris would be able to feel if there actually was any sort of ward in the area. Wards create a particular chill in his markings, similar to stepping out from a hot bath into the cold air. It's clearly a bluff. Still, he'd rather not start this “peacekeeping” mission off with an unnecessary fight. It should be easy enough to sneak in another way; there's no way the Dalish have enough people to block the entire perimeter.

“We should go,” he mutters to Hawke.

“Oh my, how did you two get so far ahead of me?”

Fenris blinks. The sudden voice from behind is light, airy, and one he hasn't heard in years.

Hawke's face breaks into an ecstatic grin that reaches his ears. Fenris tries not to groan in dread.

They turn around. Merrill stands there with her staff jabbed into the ground and eyes twinkling. “Hello, my dear …” She pauses, biting her lip as her eyes dart around. “Bodyguards!”

“Sorry Messare, we thought you were right behind us!” Hawke says, giving Merrill a slight curtsey and a wink. She covers her mouth with her hand to hide the giggle it elicits.

Hawke turns back to the two elves in the trees. “Sorry for any trouble there — we thought she was with us! Of course y’all wouldn’t let us in without her.”

The two elves share unreadable looks before the archer shakes his head. “Is this the new trend? Bringing a clueless shem as a bodyguard?”

“Second in the hour,” the mage says. “I don’t trust this. We should — “

“Wait!” Hawke throws his hands into the air. “I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right. We’re mighty pitiful liars, aren’t we?” Hawke smiles as invitation to the elves to share in his deprecation. “The truth is just a bit of a drag through the mud, you know?”

The elves in the trees look at Hawke with expressions that are nearly as incredulous as Fenris’s own.

Then, Hawke rests a hand on his shoulder. “My husband is sick,” he says. “She’s the only one who’s been able to help.”

_This is necessary_ , Fenris tells himself as he lets a hot breath out his nose. They need an excuse to be here. It makes more sense than anything else he can think of. It still makes him want to scream.

“She didn’t wanna let out that she’d been using Dalish magic for somethin’ like this,” Hawke continues. “We know these things are secrets, but, please — We need her to keep the pain at bay.”

There’s the pity. There’s the fear. Hawke is clever to use those against them. Fenris sees the elves look him over and wonders if the markings and the bags under his eyes confirm the entire story in their minds.

“I’m sorry for lying,” Merrill says. She looks down in a mimicry of sadness, but Fenris can see that she’s hiding her surprised expression from them. “Please. I only want to keep my friend safe.”

The archer’s doubt fades quicker than the mage’s. Fenris doesn't look away as every inch of him, especially his sword, is scrutinized and considered. And then the archer says something in Elvish to the mage that makes her sigh and her hands fade back to their natural color.

“Keep them away from the ceremonies. Stay in the woods. Keep your distance,” the mage says. “One foot out of line, and all three of you will be kicked out.”

“You have my word,” Merrill says.

“Andaran atish'an,” the archer says, bowing his head. Merrill echoes the phrase, and then begins walking down the dirt path with a wave for the other two to follow her lead.

When they’ve almost made it out of earshot, Fenris hears one of the elves exclaim:

“Ah, fenhedis. Did you get her name? I must have missed it.”

Fenris gestures for the others to walk quicker. He gets the feeling they wouldn’t have made it this far if Merrill’s name hadn’t been _missed_. He doesn't expect to return to any sort of baseline level of relaxed throughout this entire affair, but once they're fully out of sight of the guards, his hands do stop itching for his sword.

“Well, that was unpleasant. But it's so wonderful to see you!” Merrill bounces back into cheer so quickly that it catches Fenris off-guard. She wraps her arms up and around Hawke's neck, who gives her a big squeeze in return. Merrill laughs as Hawke briefly lifts her off the ground.

“Good to see you too, Merrill,” Hawke says, setting her down.

Merrill turns to Fenris and smiles. She gives a wave instead of a hug.

“Unsurprising to see you here, I suppose,” Fenris says. It comes out more affectionate than he intends.

“It's quite exciting, isn't it? But why are you here? Not that you shouldn’t be, it’s great to have company, but — “ She stops, mid-sentence. The smile falls off her face. “That was a lie earlier, yes? I know that you’re having trouble, Fenris, but I really don’t know how to — “

Fenris takes a breath and tries not to dig his nails too deeply into his palm. How much of his pain does she know? Is she aware that he stays awake each night, listening to voices that aren’t there? Does she know that he can’t remember half the drunken songs that Hawke would sing in the Hanged Man? He’d asked Hawke what exactly he'd written in each letter, but Hawke had said that he'd been so frenzied when writing them that he can't remember the details.

Hawke jumps in. “Sort of. We know you don’t have any sort of cure, no. But you mentioned you’d be here, and we thought it was as good a place as any to ask around for leads.”

“Oh! Of course,” Merrill says. “I’ll speak with the Keepers. One of them will surely be able to help you, Fenris.”

“Thanks, love.” Hawke gives her a good-hearted slap on the back. “Let us know anything you find out.”

Hawke had to be the one to feed her that lie. Even Merrill wouldn’t believe that Fenris would seek out help from the Dalish on his own, even with her inability to ever see past the flowers in her eyes when it comes to her people.

They can’t tell Merrill about his arrangement. He wouldn’t blame her for thinking he’s jumped into a hole deeper than he can climb out of.

“Isn't this exciting?” Merrill repeats, once again. “The Arlathvhen is so wonderful; I can't wait to show it all to you both.”

Hawke throws an arm over her shoulders, and the three of them start walking down the dirt road once again. “It's good to have you along, Merrill.”

* * *

Fenris forgets how talkative Hawke is until he’s matched by someone who also has a waterwheel for a mouth. It had taken him a while to realize that Hawke wasn't less outspoken around him because he found Fenris dull; he simply respected Fenris's desire for quiet.

But with Merrill by their side, Fenris can’t keep up with the conversation. He tunes in and out as they catch up on the last year, piping in only when Hawke nudges him in the side.

She carries a lantern, already lit in the dim afternoon light, not quite like any of the lamps he’s seen before. Not even in Tevinter — no, no need to think about that. He refocuses on the purple sparks flying in tight circles inside the glass, like a string of electricity spun into a spool. It looks like something Anders would've used to blow up a building, if he'd been given another chance.

“How's Kirkwall been then? Glad to be back?” Hawke asks. Finally, a topic Fenris has a scant interest in.

“It’s seen better days; it’s seen worse days. It was nice to be down here for a while, though. It’s not often you get the chance to study a tear in the Veil so closely.” Merrill sighs, looking at the sky with a wistful expression. “But I did so miss Kirkwall’s cliffs. Standing on those, looking out over the sea — don’t you miss that?”

“There are a lot of things I miss about Kirkwall,” Hawke says. His voice drops with something sadder than wistfulness. But in true Hawke-fashion, he bounces back before Fenris can find the words to comfort him. “You been keeping busy?”

“How could I not? There's always so much to be done,” Merrill says. Fenris actually agrees with her. He can't understand people who lay around in their luxury, not when there's so many people out there struggling to simply stay alive. “I've been helping around the alienage where I can. I'm _much_ better at healing nowadays — do you remember when I tried to heal Varric's broken wrist? Oh, he was so funny. He couldn't hold a pen right for weeks.”

Hawke laughs. “Oh, yes. And how he tried to get Isabela to transcribe for him? Those two should collaborate more — that might have been the filthiest thing I've ever read.”

“Please, no,” Fenris deadpans, getting a laugh from them both.

There are parts of Kirkwall he misses as well, even if he’s loathe to admit it. There was a comfort in the routine of having a group of people to fight and drink and laugh with each night, even if it had ended with that group fleeing a city on fire to scatter across the land. Fenris figures that's just the cost of friendship right there.

“Are you still working on the eluvian? How's that going?” Hawke asks.

There's a hitch in Merrill's step. It's small enough that he doubts that Hawke notices it, but Fenris sees the way she bites her lip and her fingers lose some color where they grip her staff. “I've — well, I've been researching history quite a bit recently. Varric told you about the Creators, right? The truth of what they were?”

“Yeah, we heard.” Hawke had suggested baking a pie or two for Merrill, but Fenris had told him there was no way it wouldn’t rot by the time it reached the Free Marches.

Fenris couldn’t empathize with that pity. He’d felt nothing but disgust. Of course the Dalish turned out to be worshipping slave-owners, branding their faces to keep their masters’ legacies alive. It was a sickening reminder that the horror he was fighting had existed since the beginning of time itself. At least it answers the question of why the ancient elves needed a ritual to bind lyrium into people in the first place.

Hawke fills the silence left by Merrill. “Has that been hard on you?”

“It’s, well … No, it has not been easy.” She furrows her brow, nodding with determination that she managed to dig up from somewhere. “But it's the reason I've come. I have to tell them. My people need to know the truth.”

“I can't imagine they'll take kindly to that,” Fenris says. _Especially not from a blood mage who killed off her entire clan._

“I know that,” Merrill says, as if Fenris has said something as obvious as calling the Hanged Man a shithole. “But … finally, so much of our history makes sense. It's the missing piece.”

Hawke glances at Fenris. Fenris imagines he’s running through the same calculations of how this could affect their mission. “Have you told anyone else yet?”

“I've told some people but … news doesn't travel quick amongst my people. This is my best chance.”

“And if they don't want to hear it?” Fenris asks.

“It doesn't matter. They have a right to know.” Merrill says. “It's my duty. I can't carry this and not share it, not after we’ve all spent so much time searching.”

Fenris has no doubt this will complicate things, but it’s for the best that the Dalish come to face their reality. Maybe if they learn they’ve been dressing up as slaves, they’ll stop acting like they’re above the elves who actually live that life.

It’s an inevitability that the truth will come out, then. He knows that once Merrill is headed down a path, there isn't an obstacle in the world that could turn her astray. Hawke admires it. Fenris thinks it's a wonder it hasn't gotten her killed.

“Well. I do hope the weather holds up!” Merrill looks up the length of her staff to the cloudy sky. “I may have lost my tent somewhere a few nights ago.”

“How did you manage that?” Fenris asks, picturing Merrill wandering off to pick flowers and forgetting her entire campsite behind him. Hawke chuckles and Merrill smiles sheepishly. He doubts he's that far off.

“You can sleep with us, then,” Hawke says, throwing his arm over her shoulder and nudging Fenris in the side. “We can make tea and braid each other's hair!”

“Absolutely not.” Fenris returns the nudge with an elbow directly to Hawke's ribs. Merrill giggles as Hawke guffaws.

The three of them fall into a quick pace, driven by Fenris's impatience. He knows this thing is meant to start in the evening, and he's not going to feel calm until he’s had a chance to get a lay of the land and survey the grounds for danger. There will be time for leisurely strolls through the woods once this is all over. He just doesn't intend to participate in them.

They come to the top of a hill, which Fenris hopes to be the final one. At the crest of it, he realizes they've caught up to two other travelers, who walk side-by-side down the same dirt road at a much more relaxed pace.

One of the men looks like any other Dalish he'd expect to see on this road. If not for the other one, Fenris wouldn't have spared him a second glance.

“Oh, wow. Would you look at that?” Hawke shields his eyes from the sun as he squints at the two figures. “That's the Inquisitor and the Iron Bull, isn't it?”

Fenris has never met them; he and Hawke received an invitation to join their celebration after they'd dealt with Corypheus, but Hawke had flat-out refused. Hawke doesn't talk much about his time at Skyhold, and Fenris doesn't take joy in making him relive the guilt of what happened in the Fade.

Ever the social butterfly, Hawke cups his mouth to shout down at them.

He gets one syllable out.

A bolt of lightning strikes the Iron Bull.

Fenris gasps. Colored spots of light cloud his vision as he tries to make out what’s in front of him. No, it didn’t hit the Qunari — but it only missed by inches. The Inquisitor is the first to react, grabbing Iron Bull’s arm in the same motion as his dive to the side. Another flash of light, and when it clears, Fenris sees that Iron Bull remains standing while the elf has been knocked to the ground, hair standing on end with the remnants of just-missed electricity. Fenris steels his nerves for an attack as the putrid smell of magic fills the air.

Iron Bull draws his axe without hesitation, his back turned to Fenris and the others. The Inquisitor — Lavellan, Fenris vaguely remembers — scrambles to his feet and unsheathes a single dagger from his belt.

From behind, Hawke’s booming voice breaks through the confusion. “What are you _doing_?”

Fenris pivots on his heel, fists raised, eyes narrowed, every muscle in his body tense, because he's not about to let a single strike of lightning come anywhere near Hawke.

He sees Merrill, and he can't breathe.

Blue flames engulf her body, as if she's walked out of a burning building and the fire has clung to her as its fuel. Sparks fly off her skin in all directions, cracking and popping loud in his ears. The lights blacken the edge of his vision; it hurts to even look at her.

Fenris would say he hates magic, not that he's afraid of it. But when he looks at Merrill, he feels _terrified_.

He follows her glare, eyes blazing blue and silver, and turns down the road to face Iron Bull and Lavellan.

Iron Bull spins around, axe held high in the air and ready to strike.

“Shit,” the Qunari says, and before the word has even left his mouth, his hands have opened wide.

His axe falls to the ground. The sound of metal clattering against dirt covers any sound as Lavellan jumps back. Behind the cloud of dust the weapon spins up, Lavellan looks just as shocked as Fenris feels.

The world is too bright; the colors too loud. This doesn’t make sense. Fenris needs to put an end to this, but he has no idea what _this_ is. He steps back and spreads his arms wide to place his body in front of Hawke, blocking him from Merrill and the heat she gives off. He doesn't know what to do, but his instincts yell at him to _protect_.

“Stop this, Merrill!” he screams, but Merrill doesn't break her line of sight, never taking her furious eyes off the two men below. At the top of the hill, she's the vision of a storm, ready to crack open and turn everything around her to ash.

She slams her staff beside her, breaking the ground into a web of cracks. She whispers, voice cold and buzzing with static:

“I'm going to give him what he deserves.”


	4. Chapter 4

Bull’s axe hits the ground like the thunder that’s supposed to follow lightning. Nebel knows not to take his eyes off the enemy, but it’s like watching his own heart ripped out and left to beat on the dirt.

This doesn’t make sense.

Sprawled across the ground, static coursing through his bones and all breath knocked out of him, he’d tried to think of what they possibly could have done to attract a rage demon. But then he’d stood, and through the sting of dirt in his eyes he’d seen —

The vallaslin of Falon’Din. Dark hair. A slender frame. An ironbark staff, shining the violet glow of electric magic.

It must be Merrill. He sees the unnatural blue in her eyes and has a moment of pity for what’s left of her.

And while Nebel knows Bull’s fear of demons runs deeper than he would ever say, that still doesn’t explain why he’d throw down his arms in the face of one. Nebel waits for Bull to say something, for any sound or signal beyond the crackling sparks and the thrum of blood in his ears. But Bull’s jaw is clenched tight, his hands hung by his side, his eye fixed only on the woman above them.

Nebel clutches his dagger. “What’s going on, Bull?”

Bull doesn’t risk one glance away from Merrill or the fire that swirls around her. “I need you to stay calm, kadan.”

Easier said than done. Nebel trusts Bull, but calm isn’t something he can find when he’s certain that Merrill won’t miss the third time.

“Have you _completely_ lost it?” someone standing beside Merrill yells — another elf, some poor soul who must have just wanted a peaceful week at the Arlathvhen and ran into _this_ on their very first night. No, wait. That’s … that’s _Fenris_. From the hair to the tattoos that illuminate his skin, there’s no one else in Thedas that could fit that description. Fenris side-steps away from a rogue lick of flame, and Nebel sees that Hawke is behind him, sword already drawn. Merrill doesn’t register his question.

Nebel inches closer to Bull. “We need to run.” _And distract her_. Without that step, they’ll be lucky to even make it to the trees. Is that what Bull’s waiting for? Does he need Nebel to take the lead on a decoy? He can play bait, sure, but no — no, that _still_ doesn’t explain the damn axe.

Hawke tries unsuccessfully to push past Fenris’s outstretched arms. “Talk to us, Merrill!”

“We don’t need to fight,” Bull says, finally offering _something_.

Merrill closes her eyes. “Well, that’s good. I’d prefer this to be easy.” When she opens them, the flames recede into her. Not a trace of smoke remains. The only sign the fire was ever there is the gem in Merrill’s staff that lights up in that same burning blue —

“Watch out!” Nebel jumps in front of Bull, chest-to-chest, and waits for the heat to strike his back.

It doesn’t. When he looks up at Bull, his body goes numb. The pain in his vhenan’s eye is so vast that the gray has been swallowed up entirely by his pupils, and _fenhedis_ , what an idiot Nebel was to think that Merrill would attack from the front.

Nebel steels himself for Bull’s weight, but Bull never keels over. He only has a second to realize that Bull hasn’t been hit before the back of his own neck feels the sting of heat.

The forest disappears. Blue is the only thing that’s left.

But for a fire that should be consuming them, the pain is underwhelming. Nebel turns, surprised he’s still capable of it, and finds himself trapped within a ring of fire. There’s room for him and Bull and not much else.

At least Bull is with him. At least they’re both unharmed, so far. The agony fades from Bull’s face, even as sparks land on his skin. He shoots Nebel a glance, and in that eye, Nebel sees … he doesn’t know what it is. For once, he has no idea what Bull is trying to tell him.

Bull bends over Nebel, as if there’s any way to shield him from this flame. His breath is cold on Nebel’s ear. “I will not let her hurt you.”

“Bull, what are you — “

“But we aren’t able to fight her. Let me talk her down.”

“You can’t talk down someone that’s been taken by a demon. Please, listen to me, we need to run!”

“Trust me, kadan.”

He does. He’d trust Bull to the ends of the world, but nothing is making sense, and any hope he had that they could run is snuffed by the flames that fan out around their feet. Bull must have a plan. He’s always thinking ten steps ahead of everyone; Nebel can’t imagine what scheme he’s hiding in his head, but he takes a breath of smoke and trusts that it will play out soon.

“Merrill, stop this, _please_. Let’s talk this out,” Hawke yells, more firm than angry.

“I’ve left the Qun, Merrill.”

Seconds pass before Bull’s voice actually registers in Nebel’s ears. That’s … a strange choice of distraction.

Bull fixes his gaze on the top of the hill. “Merrill. I’m not going to hurt you, or Hawke, or anyone else.”

“Bull?” Nebel rests a hand on Bull’s arm. How can everything suddenly feel so cold, even as a fire burns around them?”

“How dare you show up here?” Merrill’s voice rises above all other noise. “You will not have another chance. My people will be safe from you once and for all.”

Hawke lets the tip of his sword drop. “What are you talking about, Merrill? What’s going on?”

“Varric told me what happened in the Winter Palace,” Merrill says. “How do you think those Qunari had all those eluvians?”

Time stops. Or it may as well, as a layer of glass seems to fall over the world. Nebel can’t seem to form a full thought.

_That’s … no, he wouldn’t —_

“She’s not … “ Nebel forces a breath into his lungs. “Bull, what is she saying?”

Bull places a hand on Nebel’s shoulder, squeezing so tight that he feels it shift his bones. “I’ll explain everything. But you’ve got to follow my lead.”

No. Nebel needs that explanation _now._ He didn’t have the luck to be born as a mage, his weapon is useless at this range, and with only one arm it’s impossible that he could take any of them head-on. All he has is his trust in Bull, and that’s —

How _did_ they have those eluvians?

“Hawke, what do you think you’re doing?”

Fenris grabs Hawke’s arm as the man tries to slide past him. Hawke smiles, large enough that even Nebel can see his teeth. He lays a hand on Fenris’s head and slides it down to sweep hair back behind Fenris’s ear, a movement that’s unnervingly gentle when two men are about to burn alive only yards away.

“I’m putting a stop to this,” Hawke says. Beyond a wall of flame, he wrenches his arm away from Fenris and begins to approach Merrill with her fiery eyes and still-crackling staff.

Fenris lunges for him. “Get back here! She’s going to kill you!“

“No, she won’t,” Hawke says. “It’s Merrill, remember? She won’t hurt me.”

“The fact that it’s Merrill is what concerns me.”

Hawke’s heel hits the ground and he pauses, blinking rapidly as his hair flies up to stand on end. When he moves again, blue sparks jump across his different pieces of armor and his limbs seem to strain against an invisible force. But with that same broad smile, Hawke comes to stand beside Merrill and plants his hand on her shoulder. To Nebel’s surprise, Hawke’s arm doesn’t burn up at the touch. “Hey, love. It’s me.”

“I’ve not gone crazy, Hawke.”

“I know,” he says with a more genuine tone than Nebel could manage. “But I wanna know what’s happened.”

“Let go of me.”

“Alright, no problem.” Hawke raises both hands above his shoulders. “But listen, this is gonna be a hell of a first impression if anyone else comes down this way. Kinda surprised no one’s come running at this racket yet.”

“I can finish this rather quickly, if you’ll let me.”

“See, about that? Varric is gonna have a lot of questions if we end up killing the Inquisitor.” Hawke grimaces and points his thumb down the hill. “Gotta have some good answers, you know?”

The ring of fire stutters. Merrill is hesitating. “You’ll listen to me?”

“Yeah, of course. Just maybe cool it with the flames. Don’t want these gorgeous caterpillars burning up.” Hawke brushes a hand over his forehead, and Merrill doesn’t smile, but her own brows relax.

“Please don’t be swayed by his words,” she says, though Nebel isn’t sure who she’s speaking to. “You mustn’t trust him.”

Hawke’s thumb draws a circle over his heart, one of those odd Andrastian gestures. “I swear. You had my back, I’ve got yours.”

Merrill closes her eyes. Her staff fades to an opaque white and she rolls her shoulders back, opening her green eyes to look up at the sky for a moment before descending the hill.

The flames keep burning.

The second that Merrill steps away, Fenris rushes over and grabs Hawke by the forearms. Hawke allows Fenris to look him over limb by limb and frantically smooth the static out of his hair. “Hawke, you absolute imbecile — “

Merrill approaches. She’s going to have to snuff out the fire; she can’t possibly keep them trapped there in the middle of the damn road. And if she dares try … Nebel twirls his dagger between slow fingers until its tip faces her.

“Don’t,” Bull warns.

“I don’t think we’re getting another chance, Bull,” Nebel whispers, but he still slides his dagger into his belt. He doesn’t stand a chance without Bull’s support.

Hawke peers over the outer edge of the fire and pokes his sword into the blue flames. To his side, Merrill still looks as if she’s planning to either fill in the rest of the ring or leave them there until they choose to burn themselves.

“Long time no see, Inquisitor,” Hawke says, giving Nebel a once-over. His gaze rests briefly on Nebel’s left arm.

“What’s going on, Hawke?”

Hawke shrugs. “Fuck if I know.” He claps a hand down on Merrill’s shoulder, and this time she doesn’t throw him off. “Alright, Merrill. Let’s go sort this out. No fire, no lightning, no weapons. Sound good?”

“You’re siding with a demon,” Nebel says.

Merrill shakes her head up at Hawke, blinking her eyes in the perfect image of innocence. Hawke says, “I don’t think so. I’ve seen demons do their thing before and this … isn’t that.”

“We’ll cooperate,” Bull says. “Put down your weapons, kadan.”

Nebel hesitates. His dagger is his last defense, and setting it down means … this is real. He may as well be laying his head on the chopping block. But this has to be part of the plan, whatever that may be. Nebel sets the dagger on the ground and misses the Anchor more than ever.

“Please don’t run,” Merrill says. “That will be so much less pleasant for all of us.”

Nebel prepares to run.

Merrill blinks, and the fire is snuffed. Nebel waits for Bull to rush forward and strike, ready take his place in Bull’s blind spot as his lethal left hand.

Nothing happens. Bull’s slow breaths are his only movement, his only sound, even as Fenris approaches to pick up their weapons.

“The one in your boot,” Fenris says with hardly a glance.

Nebel curses and takes that dagger out as well, passing it into Fenris’s outstretched hand. “How could _you_ defend her?”

“I trust Hawke. I don’t have reason to trust either of you.” He heaves Bull’s axe up onto his shoulders. “And the innocent don’t surrender so eagerly.”

Great. As if the threat of being burned alive wasn’t enough, now they need to worry about having their hearts ripped out as well. He warned Bull. He damn well tried to, at least. Nebel tries to channel his frustration through a glare, but Bull ignores that too.

Merrill and Fenris step off the road and into the forest, speaking in whispers too quiet to hear. Something cold and heavy taps Nebel between the shoulder blades. He spins around. To Nebel’s astonishment, Hawke is holding his sword at Nebel’s chest and acting like he has every right to put it there. This is fucking ridiculous. They aren’t criminals. Three random people can’t take them to the side of the road for execution. Even as Inquisitor he never did anything as brazen as this —

Bull raises his hands up to either side of his head. His face is a blank slate, no sign of anger or fear or any of his usual humor in his expression.

This can’t be right. This is his Bull. The same Bull who he wraps himself around at night, who laughs, bright and loud, when he makes a joke about the absurdities of the human culture that neither of them fully grasp. This is his Bull, submitting to orders without even a word.

“Alright, hands up, Inquisitor,” Hawke says. “Well, hand up, I guess.”

Nebel feels whiplash at how quickly his thoughts snap back to the present. “Are you serious? I am _not_ doing that.”

“Pretty sure between the two of you, you'd be the one to shove a knife in my back.”

Nebel bares his teeth at Hawke. His fingers itch for his weapons. “You have no cause to take us prisoner. Right, Bull?”

Bull doesn’t even look at him.

“I dunno, Merrill seems pretty sure there is. And I’m gonna be honest with you,” Hawke says. “I doubt we could stop her if you ran. But you’re welcome to try.”

“Kadan.”

_No_. This isn’t what that word is for. It’s for shared drinks and warm touches. Laughter they can’t control. Quiet moments in the sun. Bull’s never used it like this, a plea for Nebel to give up his fight.

Nebel grinds his teeth until his jaw aches. “Fine,” he eventually whispers, placing his hand on the back of his head.

As Hawke guides them into the woods, Fenris and Merrill already out of sight, Nebel resists every urge to run, fight, or beg. This won’t be how they die. At the end of this, he’s going to steal Bull away and demand answers for all the questions he hasn’t yet formed.

With their backs to Hawke, it's the perfect chance for Bull to give him some sort of signal, some gesture or smile or anything to indicate what his plan is. Instead, Bull just says, “We’ll be fine. Stay calm, and I’ll take care of it.”

“Just don’t make me regret this,” Nebel says, and the lack of response does nothing for his confidence.

* * *

The forest has always been a safe place for Nebel. There are places to hide — in branches, behinds trunks, in hollows and dens — and it’s always easier to hide than to fight.

But now, the trees feel like the bars of a cage. He sits in the dirt in the glade they’ve found, Bull tense and cross-legged by his side. Hawke finds a log to sprawl across. Merrill leans on her staff, while Fenris refuses to lower himself even an inch. A flock of crows flies overhead, blacking out the setting sun for an instant.

A year ago, Nebel would have used the Anchor to carve out a path to escape. Now, all he can do is hope that Bull can get them out of there before Merrill puts that staff to use. He wants answers, yes; but he’d prefer chatting about them somewhere safe and warm and away from these people.

Hawke folds his arms and kicks his legs up on the log. “Alright, could somebody explain? I honestly don’t care who.”

“Let’s not drag this out. Tell us what you meant about the mirrors,” Fenris says.

With her lip between her teeth, Merrill stares at Bull. He stares back, unflinching. It takes biting his own tongue for Nebel to stop himself from demanding an explanation as well. The silence leaves too much room for his mind to conjure up its own. _Wait until we’re out of here_ , he reminds himself. _It can’t be that much longer._

When Merrill speaks, it’s a whisper no louder than the wind in the leaves.

“He stole my eluvian.”

Nebel feels his heart choose not to beat.

“What?” A voice asks.

Nebel doesn’t realize he’s drawn blood from his tongue until he speaks. “Bull. She’s lying, right? You wouldn’t — ”

“I wasn’t the one to walk out of there with it,” Bull is quick to say. “But, well, indirectly. Yeah. I was involved.”

It feels like the time a Venatori stabbed him in the shoulder and twisted until the muscle tore. This must be a scene from the well. This version of reality is too sick to be real, too surreal to be anything but a vision conjured by those angry voices.

He barely hears Fenris ask, “How did you manage that?”

“Oh, Creators. I don’t know where to begin.”

“You want me to explain, Merrill?”

As soon as Bull says her name, Merrill’s face hardens into a scowl. “You _would_ have more of the full story than me, I suppose.”

Bull shuts his eye. His spine grows straight. His shoulders roll back. And when he opens his eye again, Nebel finds it on him.

His heart hitches — he wants Bull to smile and dive into some simple explanation of this, some story he’d tell in a tavern that would have them all spilling ale with how funny it is. But Bull does nothing but stare at him, letting the silence stretch thin, and Nebel can’t help but feel like he’s being memorized and filed away somewhere.

“Par Vollen wanted me to investigate eluvians. Didn’t know what they were doing with ‘em. Wasn’t really my thing to ask,” Bull says. “They told me to pay Merrill a visit. Just see if she had any progress fixing hers. Maybe get my hands on any tools she had around.”

_One, two … eight?_ Nebel tries to count the eluvians he’d run through at the Palace, but he’d been so focused on keeping the Anchor under control that the memories of foggy glass all blend together.

Bull continues, “Mostly, they just wanted information. And, well. I’m _good_ at information. So I stopped by to say hi.”

“You said Hawke had asked a favor of the Inquisition to check in on me,” Merrill says.

Hawke levels Bull with a glare. Bull says, “Yeah. That wasn’t true.”

“Wait,” Nebel says. Merrill’s words run back through his head. “When did this happen?”

Bull won’t meet his eyes, not anymore. “Right after we got to Skyhold.”

Four years ago. Not ages. And Nebel had been there, oblivious to it all, gallivanting around in his tower while someone under his watch went out and —

“Merrill invited me in. Pretty eager to chat, actually.”

“I was curious about the Qunari,” Merrill says in defense.

“Really?” Hawke asks. “After everything that happened?”

“Yes, well, they were interesting to me. They all seemed so morose, but the Iron Bull … he was friendly.” She draws her cloak tighter around her and sighs into its collar. “He started asking questions about the eluvian. They were innocent enough, and, well, I was happy to have someone to talk to about it.”

Bull nods. “So, once she got talking about the mirror, I didn’t have to do much. There were notes, tools, that sorta thing around. I found where she kept that, uh, the wood thing — “

“The arulin’holm. It had been in my clan for generations.”

In the dismal silence that follows, Nebel braces himself for the inevitable barrage of details about the tool from the well. But nothing comes. Right. No more unprompted lectures on elven history for him.

“Yeah, that’s the one. Sorry about that.” Bull scratches at the base of one of his horns. “Anyways. I got what I needed, and that was meant to be it. But Merrill mentioned she was moving back up to Kirkwall, and well, that changed things. They knew Merrill wasn’t staying in Orlais forever. Just didn’t expect that to be in a matter of days.”

Nebel hadn’t even known Merrill was in the south. Maybe if he had, maybe if he’d invited her … maybe none of them would be here now, sitting in a circle as the world falls apart.

“It was late by the time we were done. She offered me to stay the night.” Bull grimaces. “Er, not like that.”

“An unnecessary clarification,” Fenris mutters.

“Just trying to keep us on the same page. Merrill was a complete gentlewoman. Didn’t even notice when I flirted with her.”

Merrill tilts her head and looks to the side, as if she’ll find the relevant memory over there. Fenris rolls his eyes.

“Right. So there were at least a few other Qunari hanging around. I dropped that information once she’d gone to sleep.” Bull shakes his head like even the memory exasperates him. “I think they panicked. Or decided they couldn’t wait any longer. I don’t know. I had to trust they had their reasons. ‘Cause when I checked in the morning, plans had changed.”

It can’t be as bad as Bull is making it sound. Nebel’s Bull, his vhenan, is a good man. He’s the sort to feel guilt over accidentally stepping on a mabari’s paw. He could still have changed course, maybe he only attempted to steal the mirror, maybe he took it and brought it back — surely Bull would have told him otherwise.

“They said to find out how she hid the eluvian when she was out and about. And to get her away for a few days. So I got Merrill to travel with me into the city. She needed some supplies; I needed to meet back up with the Chargers. Convenient enough. And on the way out, I watched how she locked it away.”

“How?” Hawke asks. Merrill digs her teeth into lip. “You don’t need to share if you don’t — “

“It was my blood,” Merrill says. She glares at Bull with a fury that could certainly melt stone.

Bull only nods, yet again. “Yeah. One hell of a lock you got there.”

There’s a question hanging in the air, one that no one seems to want to ask. Nebel takes a breath that does little to steady his twisting vision. Fighting a raw throat, he asks in a whisper, “Where did you get the blood, Bull?”

For the first time, Bull flinches. “I coordinated an attack with some of the other Qunari nearby. You remember the, uh, dwarven bandits that came around, right?”

“I killed one of them,” Merrill says.

“You sure did. Sorry. I told them to go easy on us,” Bull says. “Shit went wrong after that. Don’t know what tipped her off, honestly. Must’ve gotten something wrong when talking about Hawke or something. Too eager with the history questions?”

Everyone looks to Merrill. Her face stays neutral, oblivious to the attention on her. After a few moments, she looks around with wide, blinking eyes and shakes her head. “Oh. No, I don’t care to say. I may need that trick again.”

Bull shrugs. “Sure. Doesn’t matter. Either way, I realized _she’d_ realized something was wrong. And I needed time to escape.” Bull takes a breath that lingers in him, letting the exhale drag out long and slow. “So that morning, I slipped magebane into her tea.”

Hawke shudders. Nebel assumes he’s seen it too: the ashen face of a mage, dizzy on their feet but too restless to stay still, looking just as suffocated as their magic.

“I walked her back to her home after that. Didn’t want her getting hurt or anything.”

“Not much of a fan of irony, are you?” Hawke asks.

Bull ignores him. Nebel thinks most of Hawke’s quips are better off that way. “When we got there, they had taken it already. And the uh, ar— whatever, that thing. Maybe some other stuff, I don’t know. Made it look like her place had been ransacked. No point to that after I fucked up though.”

Nebel tries to picture Bull guiding someone to a home he knows he destroyed and somehow doing nothing but walk away. But he can’t — his Bull would be there, picking up the broken glass, putting away the scattered books, hanging a few of those pink gems that he so loves to watch catch the light just as an extra touch of decoration.

“It was more of a show for anyone who searched her stuff after she died,” Bull says. “Which, er, was meant to happen. They _strongly encouraged_ me to arrange an accident if she caught on.”

“Why didn’t you?” Merrill asks.

“I don’t know. Didn’t feel like it.”

A minute passes, and it becomes clear that Bull has nothing more to say. His expression is unreadable. Nebel has a hundred half-formed questions in his head and a thousand words for Bull, but nothing he’d like to share in front of the others.

Hawke rubs at his temples. “Why did you not tell me, Merrill? Why not go after him?”

“He’s not telling the full story,” Merrill says.

But he has to be. There can’t possibly be any more — or maybe the rest of the story redeems Bull, somehow.

“I told her not to alert you,” Bull says to Hawke. “Not while you were with us.”

_Us._ The Inquisition. Him.

“I said you wouldn’t make it home if you did.” Bull doesn’t turn from Hawke, but his gaze flicks over to Fenris. ”And that we knew where everyone else was, and the same went for them.”

Hawke snaps his head to Nebel and Bull and looks at them both like scum that’s fallen on his boots.

Merrill’s lips twist up in a wry smile. “Yes. You did say that. And that I could be just as valuable working on eluvians with a head full of qamek up in Par Vollen.”

“Yeah. Guess I went a bit overboard there.”

Nebel has heard Bull angry. Vicious. Despondent. He’s never once heard him say words cruel enough to chill the blood that leaves his heart. It’s not hard to imagine Merrill and Bull, sipping tea over a fire or at a table much too small for him. But when he tries to picture Bull saying any of that, everything falls apart.

“I’m shocked you actually listened,” Fenris says. “Not when that mirror is concerned.”

Merrill traces the carvings up the edge of her staff with a tan finger and distant eyes. “It had done enough.”

Even after putting it to rest, the Inquisition still manages to be dragged into everything. And maybe Nebel can’t find the words as himself, as Bull’s partner, as a fellow Dalish, but the role of Inquisitor is familiar and a welcome escape from himself. “I swear to you, the Inquisition wouldn’t have allowed any of that to happen,” he says. “We had connections across Thedas, we could have offered protection to each of you. Our spymaster had eyes and ears everywhere.”

“And how effective were those eyes and ears, if you didn’t even know about this?” Fenris asks.

He _should_ have known, shouldn’t he? How could he have missed this? How much more had happened under his watch that he’d apparently turned a blind eye to?

“It was the last thing I ever did for the Qun.”

Merrill’s eyes narrow to slits. “And why not write me and tell me that?”

“I’m sorry, Merrill. I shouldn’t have done it. But I swear to you, that’s not who I am anymore.” Bull’s words wavers in just the right places to distract from the fact that they aren’t an answer. “I doubt I can make it up to you. But nothing like that will ever happen again.”

Except that this _is_ happening, this is real, and Nebel knew he was stepping into a web of lies when he came here, but he never expected it from the one stable presence in his life. He focuses on keeping his body still, because he knows if he takes even one wrong breath, he risks vomiting or crying or passing out or running off to Montsimmard’s inn and smoking until morning. He wishes he wanted to scream. Instead, all he wants is to shut his eyes and curl up until this nightmare fades away.

Hawke says, “Alright. I get why you wanted to kill him now.”

“No. You can’t,” Nebel says without a thought. He has too many questions, too much in his heart, too many plans and memories that he can’t just let go of. “At this point, that’s nothing more than revenge.”

“Sure it is,” Fenris says, rotating his wrist until the bones go _pop_. “But revenge can be quite satisfying, in my experience.”

Bull’s head snaps up. “Whatever you do with me, you can’t hurt Nebel. He had no part in this.”

Fenris and Hawke glance at each other, speaking without words yet again. Nebel begins to run through his options for escape, alone or otherwise.

The silent argument ends with Hawke being chosen to speak, apparently. “Merrill, what do you want to do?”

Nebel expects some sort of rage or bitter hatred when he looks at Merrill. But as she stares down at Bull, no flames framing her, leaning on her staff like without it she may fall to the ground, she just looks _exhausted_. With eyes shut, she moves her lips in a whisper too soft for anyone to hear. But to Nebel’s eyes, it looks like a prayer. Then, she says, “I imagined this so much easier. I’ve thought of this for years, but … I always pictured a fight.”

It's quiet. The forest’s creatures have gone to sleep; the insects haven’t yet woken. Merrill sinks down on the log beside Hawke and lets him massage circles on her back. Fenris wears a disgusted scowl as he rubs his thumb over wrist in its own slow circles. Bull keeps his eye on the ground.

It’s an act. Nebel _knows_ Bull. Maybe not as much as he thought. Maybe not that much at all, really, but he does know Bull is smart. He’s acting quiet, ashamed, and docile, because that’s how they make it out of this situation alive. There's no telling if any of that is how Bull actually feels. Nebel needs to talk to him. He needs to know what Bull is really thinking, without the threat of a blade hanging over his neck.

“Can I speak to Bull?” Nebel asks, directing it to Fenris simply because the man is already staring at him. “Alone. Just for a moment.”

“Really? Do you think us that foolish?” Fenris asks.

“ _Please_. I’m not trying to run. I just need to think.”

Merrill and Fenris share a look, wariness in her eyes and incredulousness in his.

“I can watch them,” Hawke says. “If you two wanna go make a decision.”

After a moment of hesitation, Merrill nods. Fenris levels Hawke with a terrifying look, and the two once again seem to hold an entire conversation with only their eyes. This time, Fenris appears to lose the argument. “Fine. Be careful,” he mutters.

And then —

_Green_. The same green as a rift, the same green he’d fallen through into the Fade. The color drowns out all else, and Nebel’s hand flies to his belt, grasping for his dagger but only hitting leather. _Shit, shit, shit_. He slams his hand into the ground instead, throwing himself to the side. He just needs to get as far from this place as he can —

Someone grabs his wrist and pulls him back. He yelps and thrashes, but it’s pinned to the tree trunk above his head with a strength he has no hope of fighting. _No, oh Creators no, not again —_ The light still blinds his eyes, and he prays it’s not Bull. The skin is rough and uneven with callouses, but there’s an inhuman chill to it.

Inhuman. No need to panic, no need to breathe so heavy. He blinks until the green is only a frame around his vision and then looks up to see his hand bound to the tree by a woody vine, a liana that winds up from the ground to encircle the trunk and his wrist all the same. Bull’s hands are in a similar entanglement on his own tree across from Nebel. His forearms flex twice, testing the strength discreetly.

“Just in case,” Merrill says, and starts walking away, Fenris trailing behind her with a scoff. Nebel has to twist and crane his neck to watch them leave, but he refuses to even think of questions before they’re gone.

“Pretend like I’m not here,” Hawke jokes.

Nebel wishes he could. He takes a breath of brisk dusk air and counts the crows as they pass above, willing their calm into his body.

“You okay?” Bull asks.

“Just fine,” Nebel says.

There’s so much he doesn’t want to say. There’s a large part of him that wants to embrace the silence, curl up in the comfort of leaving things unsaid. But he feels caught in the middle of a hundred branching paths, and if he doesn’t get some answers, he won’t be able to take a single step.

He just can’t find the first question to ask.

“How are the vines treating you?” Hawke asks, voice lilting like a music box that won’t turn off. “You know, there were a lotta rumors about you two back at Skyhold. Have y’all ever — “

“Stop talking or I’ll cut out your fucking tongue!” Nebel lunges forward on an instinct to wrap a hand around Hawke’s stupid throat, but the vines just rub his wrist raw and catch his hair in a tangle. This is _miserable_ , and he doesn’t need an audience for it, especially one who would consider taking their lives and punctuating the final blow with some dumb joke.

“Geez, alright. Just trying to lighten the mood,” Hawke mutters with an expression so unreasonably affronted that it just makes Nebel steam more.

Nebel tries another deep breath, holding it in him and letting it out slow through his nose, hoping it will take away some of his anger as a parting gift.

He doesn’t know where to start, so he looks at Bull instead. Bull looks _sad_ , of all things, staring at the vines holding Nebel’s hand with a pained expression. A few locks of Nebel’s hair fall into his face — the braid has come undone and isn’t that just _great_ — and his scalp stings every time he moves, as if the wood has got a fist in it. There’s a part of him that wishes Bull could step over and untangle it all. He tells that part to be quiet, for now, for a while, for — he doesn’t know how long. He may need to snuff it out for good.

“I didn’t know you were still doing side missions while with us,” he finally says.

“Yes you did, come on.”

And that's the real Bull, right there. Never letting him get away with a lie, even if calling him out leaves Nebel bristling.

Maybe he did. Maybe he turned his back on it, because it was easier to live in that ignorance. “I knew you’d done bad things. I know that. But … they were always faceless. Magisters in Tevinter, soldiers fighting a war, never — “ Nebel swallows as a now familiar sickness wells up in him. “How could you do that to her? Merrill was _innocent_.”

“A lot of the Tal-Vashoth I hunted down were innocent too.”

Nebel doesn’t entertain the attempted digression. He’s annoyed that Bull would even try. “So why did you never tell me?”

“When I left the Qun, I left Hissrad behind. I was reborn. That was the only option.”

“You can still be a changed man and give me information that’s this fucking critical.”

“It wouldn’t have made any difference.”

“Are you serious? They knew how to fix eluvians because of you, they had the tools, the research, another mirror in their collection. Everything that happened at the Winter Palace — “ Nebel pounds his left shoulder against the trunk of the tree, shaking free a rain of leaves. “I lost my _arm._ ”

“You — “

“I _know_ I would have lost it anyway, but — maybe not right after fighting an entire army of Qunari. Maybe I wouldn’t still have constant nightmares about bleeding out while running through all those stupid damn mirrors. Maybe if I’d had a fucking warning.”

He remembers the panic as the water rose in the mines, sure he wouldn’t make it back to that eluvian in time before he drowned.

“You knew what the Ben-Hassrath were,” Bull says, firm and determined and doing nothing to quell Nebel’s boiling blood. “We gathered a lot of things. No way to tell what was going to be used later. I didn’t think we needed to get into the details.”

“But when the details concern my culture, my _people_ — ”

“I’m sorry, kadan. I really am,” Bull says. “But there are things better left unsaid.”

Nebel thinks of both the Dalish and the Inquisition, the two homes he’d found, used for the good of some foreign army, and he squeezes his eyes shut to stave off the hot tears that well up in the corners. “Everyone calls me a coward. I know that,” he hisses. “But look at you. You’re a coward _and_ a liar.”

The violent flinch on Bull’s face makes it look like someone has stabbed him in the gut and he's trying to hide it under his clothes. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

Nebel wants Bull to say more. When it becomes clear that Bull is happy to let the silence suffocate them both, he turns his eyes above.

He’s always thought Bull’s skin to be the color of a soft twilight sky. It reminds him of cicadas humming, the scent of herbs in a freshly prepared supper, and the chill of a breeze soothing away the aches of a long day. As the sky loses the last hues of that purple-tinted gray, he doubts he’ll ever again live through an evening and not think of this moment.

“What now?” he asks. Bull shrugs. He never had a plan. Nebel thinks himself a moron for ever believing he did. “I should’ve ran earlier. You just wanted to face your guilt and drag me into it.”

“I didn’t want her coming after you if we ran. She’s not going to kill us.”

“Not so sure about that,” Hawke says.

No, this won’t be where Nebel dies. He’s faced death dozens of times, but nothing would be quite so pathetic as dying tied to a tree, murdered by one of his own. He heaves at the thought, and he’s glad his stomach is empty, his mouth expelling only coughs and air.

“Breathe, kadan,” Bull says, so soft that it pushes Nebel over the edge.

“Stop calling me that!” Nebel yells, and through all the years he’s known Bull, through all the nightmares they faced in the Fade and the Crossroads and every other corner of this rotten world together, never has he once seen Bull look so hurt.

As a horn bellows in the distance, a reminder that the first night of ceremonies will continue even without him, Nebel finds himself wishing for a rift to open beneath his feet.


	5. Chapter 5

Merrill swirls her toes in the dirt, drawing outlines of flowers that morph into spirals and then indecipherable lines before she wipes them clean with her heel and starts again. She leans against a tree and stares down at her feet like they’re a tragedy unfolding before her.

Fenris wishes that he'd been the one to stay behind. Hawke is better at this; he actually understands Merrill and the maze that is her brain. He understands _emotions_ and how to talk to people without accidentally making them feel worse.

“Stop waiting for an answer to fall out of the sky. Say what you’re thinking.”

“Am I truly that obvious?” Merrill looks around like the answers may instead crawl out of the trees. “I feel like I’ve built him up to be this — what do you think is the worst sort of monster out there? Ogres? Darkspawn?”

Fenris shrugs. They’re all just vile things to strike down at the end of the day.

“But then he’s there on the ground apologizing, and — “ Merrill’s gaze returns to the ground. Her constant tapping on her staff distracts Fenris, but he resists saying anything. “And if he’s left the Qun, then …“

“Has he? If he’d left, why would he not write you? Why not inform you Hawke was safe and his threats were off the table? And why would he not tell Lavellan any of this?”

“Well, that’s a possibility, but … do you really think that?”

“And isn’t this the best place to be? If they want more information on elven artifacts, if they have more thefts to make, they won’t have an opportunity like this for at least another decade.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Merrill blurts out, talking over his last few words.

“And he’s the only one who could do it. Playing lover to the one elf who could pull enough rank to get a Qunari in here? It’s ingenious, frankly.”

Merrill stares into the gem of her staff with horrified eyes, her fingers gone still. “That’s a long trick to play on someone.”

“Do you think him incapable of it?” Fenris knows of the Iron Bull, his history, the “noble” deeds he accomplished under the Inquisition. He was of particular interest to Varric, appearing frequently in his letters in his letters to Hawke. But beyond Varric's tales, Fenris knows the other side of this man. Fenris’s Qunlat wasn’t advanced enough to pick up more than pieces of the stories the Fog Warriors would tell, but few words were needed to convey the unfathomable cruelty of the Ben-Hassrath.

Instead of responding, Merrill pulls a small canteen from her belt, sighing over the cap as she twists it away. If Fenris lets her go on like this, it will be hours before she untangles herself enough from her thoughts to speak.

“We shouldn’t let him go,” Fenris prompts.

Merrill takes a short drink, then whispers, “I don’t know. I dreamed of killing him for so long, but now … this doesn’t feel right.”

“I can’t imagine Varric would oppose imprisoning him in Kirkwall if he learned of this.”

“I — well. I do quite like that idea. Oh, how I wish Varric were here,” Merrill says, and her lips curl up into a smile. “He’d know what to do.”

“You and I must remember Varric differently.”

Her smile doesn’t fade as she holds out the canteen to Fenris, who takes it begrudgingly. He’d naively anticipated having a chance to refill his own here before encountering anything this absurd. Screwing the cap back on gives his wrist trouble — Hawke had needed to wrench his arm out of Fenris’s grip to go extinguish Merrill, not realizing his own strength.

“Your wrist — “ Merrill frowns, then holds out a hand. “Here. Let me heal you.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s no trouble, I can — “

Fenris drops the closed canteen in her hand. “No. I have potions.”

She stares at her palms like they’re a rejected meal she’d spent ages preparing and not the weapons they are. “Really? Still?”

There’s no reason for her to look so surprised. Bethany had been the only mage Fenris ever willingly accepted healing from, and when she left for the Wardens, well … he’d had plenty of space in a dilapidated mansion for potions.

He nods, looking at a broken branch on the ground rather than her.

“Hm.” She glances over her shoulder. “What about Lavellan, then?”

“What of him?”

“Well, I’ll admit, he’s a bit … he’s not my favorite of the people. But he doesn’t deserve the same fate as Iron Bull.”

“The man is a love-blind fool. I have no doubt that he’ll do everything in his power to free the Iron Bull, even after all of this,” Fenris says. “I would not risk letting him free, not until we can arrange transport north. But I will leave that choice in your hands.”

“I never knew you were so cunning, Fenris,” Merrill says with a teasing lilt. “I always thought of you as the run-in-and-kill-everything type.”

“Perhaps Hawke has taught me a thing or two.”

“Thank you, Fenris. I’m glad to have you here,” she says, and he doesn’t know what she’s thanking him for, but he chalks it up as yet another thing he’ll never understand about Merrill.

“Well, then I suppose we should — “

A crash shakes the forest, its echoes ringing in Fenris's ears. It sounds like the noise that rocked Kirkwall minutes before the Chantry collapsed and the world went up in flames.

Fenris takes off running without a second thought. _Stupid, stupid, stupid —_ He shouldn't have left Hawke alone with them. No wonder the Iron Bull was so arrogantly submissive; he wouldn't need to worry if he had explosives up his sleeve this whole time.

“Hawke!” Fenris can’t remember the way back. The forest is unrecognizable in this twilight, every tree the same dull brown. He jumps over snarls of roots and pushes past branches with no concern for the red and black mess his legs will be in the morning.

And then he sees a glint of silver, and his vision blurs. “What’s happened?” he cries out as he comes skidding to a stop, just inches from a fallen tree.

Hawke blinks up at him, still sitting on that same log. He looks startled, a little uneasy, but uninjured — at least as far as Fenris can see. “Nothing's happened, Fen.“

That can’t be right. His ears are still ringing from the noise. Fenris whips around, braced for an attack, only to see Iron Bull and Lavellan still bound to trees and staring at him with wide eyes.

_Hawke is safe,_ he tells himself again and again as his heart rate dips. “But what was that explosion?” Fenris demands.

Hawke’s face flashes with concern. “Those — those were horns, Fenris. You know, like … Dalish trumpets.”

_Horns_.

A twig snaps behind him. He spins again, hand already on his sword, the world tilting like he’s at sea. But it's only Merrill, stepping out from the trees with one more confused expression to add to the mix.

Hawke's hand hovers above Fenris's shoulder. “Hey, look at me. Everything's alright. I'm alright. It's all fine.”

Fenris clenches his jaw. Hawke may be alright, but Fenris … Fenris is far from it.

How humiliating.

“The ceremonies are starting soon, apparently,” Hawke says, glancing over to Lavellan.

“I need to be there,” Fenris says. Hawke nods. It’s a given, considering the situation.

“Would you mind if I excused myself as well?” Merrill asks.

Hawke laughs. “I'm not your leader anymore, neither of you need my permission to fuck off.”

“Wait! I have to go too,” Lavellan says. Fenris levels him with an unconvinced look. “You don’t know what’s going on. Solas — the Dread Wolf — he’s got to be planning something, please — “ He jerks his head forward and Fenris sees only a second of his desperation before his eyes shut in a wince. “ _Fenedhis_.”

“Oh, that’s no good,” Merrill says, stepping to Lavellan’s side. With gentle fingers, she reaches down to untangle the nest of black hair from the vine’s grip.

“Ma serannas,” Lavellan mutters.

Fenris says, “Yes. We are all aware. Merrill and I can take care of it.”

“But I’m the only one who’s dealt with him before. If anyone can see through his game, it’s me,” Lavellan says. He gives Merrill a nod with his newly freed head as she pulls her hands away.

“And how do we know you aren’t just going to attack us and run off with the Qunari?” Hawke asks.

Lavellan waves what’s left of his left arm. “And take on the three of you at once? I’m not _that_ stupid.”

Except that all he’d really need to do is free the Iron Bull, and Fenris gets the feeling the Inquisitor could manage that. Merrill catches Fenris’s eye with a wave of her staff, and he gives her a curt shake of his head. An itching feeling tells him that this is the first step in his _peacekeeping_ , even if he can’t name the next one.

“Let him go, and I’ll stay as your prisoner,” Iron Bull says. “Free reign for him, and you can keep me here.”

Now, that’s interesting. Fenris looks to Lavellan to gauge his reaction. But the man hangs his head, hiding any expression. This could be the start of some escape plan they’d concocted while he was out of ear-shot. Fenris glances at Hawke and receives only a shrug in response.

“Why should we do that? We could keep you here anyway,” Merrill says.

“I doubt it. No one’s had luck keeping me hostage before, and believe me, plenty have tried. What’s your plan to keep these vines up tonight? Going to pass it off to some other mage once you go to sleep? You got some obsidian chains hiding in those bags?”

“Killing you is still an option,” Fenris says.

Lavellan starts. “No, you can’t — “

“I won’t fight, or even try to escape. I’ll answer your questions. Entertain with a good story. You’ll get me all to yourself this whole week,” Iron Bull says. “You have my word. Just let him go.”

“Your word doesn’t mean much,” Hawke says.

“Take it or leave it. Don’t have much else to give.”

Merrill’s taps on her staff slow, then speed up, then halt entirely as she stares down at Iron Bull. “Oh! I have an idea,” she says with an exuberance that takes Fenris aback. From her belt, she pulls a small carving knife.

Hawke jumps up and reaches for her. “Merrill, maybe explain your idea before you — “ She slices open her palm. “Alright, never-mind,” Hawke says, cringing and sitting.

A red glow engulfs her hand and wicks away the blood, like a swarm of flies picking apart the remains of a corpse. When it fades, Fenris sees an orb in her hand, no bigger than a knuckle, solid and shining but still the deep red of blood.

“We can use this!” she says, holding the ball out like it’s a thing to be admired. “It works like a mini-phylactery, sort of. But temporary.”

Hawke balks. “You — okay, forgetting about how you learned that, you can’t make a phylactery for a non-mage.”

“It’s not for him. But if he takes this, I can track my _own_ blood within him, at least for a few days. Until it leaves his system. Which might be longer for a Qunari? I’m not sure.”

Lavellan lifts his head and shakes it in a wild frenzy. “You’ve never done this with a Qunari? You don’t know how it will affect him, he’s not the same as an elf — ”

“Oh, it will be fine. I’m not looking to kill him.”

“But that _would_ save us a trip to Kirkwall, I suppose,” Fenris says. Iron Bull’s face is too stoic to be worth watching for reactions. Lavellan, however, doesn’t seem capable of hiding his expressions anymore. The quiet shock from earlier has melted away into wide-eyed panic.

Iron Bull looks at the capsule in Merrill’s hand like it’s a spider poised to jump. “Can’t you, I don’t know, smear it on me instead? Didn’t have plans to bathe anyway.”

Merrill’s nose twitches. “No. But perhaps you should.”

“Some advice for next time,” Hawke chimes in. “Maybe don’t put on such a show about how hard you are to keep captive if you don’t want this sort of thing to happen.”

Disgust creeps into Iron Bull’s face. Fenris certainly wouldn’t accept the blood, and he can’t imagine a Ben-Hassrath submitting to such a violating ritual.

Iron Bull mutters a long string of curses in Qunlat. Fenris picks out the words for _poison_ and _harbinger of death_ , which he thinks are fair critiques of the situation. “Argh, fine,” Iron Bull eventually groans, much to Fenris’s surprise.

Merrill presents the orb to Iron Bull in the center of her palm, holding it an inch from his mouth. He sniffs and stares deep into it for a moment, before grabbing it between his teeth and swallowing it dry. “Fucking creepy,” he mumbles after his throat bobs.

Fenris wholeheartedly agrees. “I assumed you’d stopped using magic of that sort,” he tells Merrill.

“Why would I? A little goes such a long way,” she says. With a wave of her hand, the vines holding Lavellan in place unwind and withdraw into the ground. Lavellan examines his arm as he lowers it — as far as Fenris can see, the only injury is a patch of raw skin and a few drops of blood on his wrist, which Lavellan rubs against his knee as he flexes and curls his fingers. It’s generous that Merrill left the bindings loose enough for Lavellan’s hand to maintain its color and mobility. Fenris’s experiences with chains were rarely ever so pleasant.

Merrill gathers her staff and gestures for Fenris to join her. Lavellan pushes himself to his feet and wastes no time in retrieving his daggers from beside Hawke’s feet. Fenris tenses, ready to grab his sword if the man so much as twitches in Hawke’s direction, but all Lavellan does is stash his knives away and come to stand by Merrill as well.

“Not letting me out, huh?” Iron Bull asks.

“Perhaps later,” Merrill says. “I don’t want you giving Hawke any trouble.”

Hawke grins. “Aw, you’re worried about me.”

“Let’s get going,” Fenris says. When he remembers the _horns_ , his mind still hears an explosion, and he can’t discern how far away these ceremonies are from the memory of a noise so distorted. The one thing he knows: they’re certainly not going to be on time.

The vines above Iron Bull light up green for a few seconds before they fade back to a natural brown. Fenris can’t see a difference in the wood, but Merrill nods, seeming satisfied with her handiwork. “Don’t take your eyes off him, Hawke,” she says, and Hawke gives her a thumbs up.

Lavellan lingers. Fenris can’t see his face, and Iron Bull’s stoic frown offers no clues to his expression or the words he may be mouthing. “Hurry it up,” Fenris mutters, which curls Lavellan’s fingers into a fist.

Lavellan whispers, “I’ll be back,” and Iron Bull nods like a soldier confirming an order.

“Don’t give us reason to regret this,” Fenris says. Merrill’s lantern swings as she bounces between her feet, but Fenris doesn’t need much light to see Lavellan’s scowl. They follow Merrill out of the glade towards the rising swell of drums and horns. Fenris has only half a minute to regret leaving Hawke on his own before he hears the Iron Bull speak.

“So, Hawke. You gonna help me piss?”

* * *

The torches along the road to the Arlathvhen burn in strange shades of blues and greens and golds, as if someone has stolen all the color from the sea and set it aflame. It’s similar to the market districts in Minrathous, where bulbs of magic lit the faces of mages exchanging coin for items sold in the streets as if they were merely household tools. Every time Fenris would walk back to Danarius’s manor, carrying some contraption he’d been made to fetch, he could do nothing more than guess how the item would be eventually be used against him.

_Bang._

Fenris stumbles. _Fasta vass_. It was a drum. Just a drum. But he can’t keep letting his mind wander back there. It’s Lavellan’s fault, really. If not for his disjointed attempts at starting a conversation, Fenris’s mind wouldn’t be so desperate to avoid reality.

“Merrill, I’m sorry,” Lavellan spits out, unfortunately. “I had no idea. I wouldn’t have tolerated that under my watch if I’d known.”

Fenris scoffs. He can’t imagine what else managed to fly under Lavellan’s nose while he was propped up as a figurehead.

Merrill doesn’t look away from the road ahead. “Is that really true?”

“What do you mean? Of course it is.”

“I assumed you’d take his side and come after me. And I’ve gotten so tired of hiding. It’s quite hard to tend a garden when you have to pick up and move every few weeks.”

“But Merrill, we’re both … how could you even think that?”

“Is that so unreasonable? That man can spin up some impressive tales. After all, he tricked you into getting into a relationship with him.“

Lavellan’s breath hitches. “I wasn’t _tricked —_ “

Fenris would rather slam his head into a rock than listen to more of this moron’s relationship woes, so he cuts him off. “Tricked or not, he did manage to lure the Inquisition into an alliance with the Qun. Or was that your idea?”

Lavellan straightens his shoulders, voice dropping out of its flustered tone. “We never worked with the Qun.”

“But you certainly tried to,” Fenris says. “That alliance fell apart by mere chance, not because you refused it.”

That hits a nerve. The flinch on Lavellan’s face brings a wave of satisfaction that reminds Fenris of nights in the Hanged Man, arguing with Anders until Hawke and Varric inevitably had to pull them apart. Fenris had always known his words stood no chance of changing the abomination’s mind, but it was the first time in his life that he’d even had the chance to voice those opinions. This argument doesn’t even come close to those drunken nights, though; Lavellan doesn’t have Anders’s fire in him.

Merrill says, “I wanted to tell you. But was I truly to believe that you’d give up anything for an apostate fighting for our old ways? Or any mage, really.”

“I have nothing against mages, my Keeper raised me — “

“And yet those poor mages who helped seal the breach?” Merrill continues. “How did you thank them? With enslavement, of all things.”

“ _Enslavement_? They were paid,” Lavellan says. Fenris bristles at the crude comparison as well. Conscription had been an overly kind fate for the mages that shouldn’t have been saved in the first place. “We couldn’t just let them run free after all of the chaos they caused, not before we were sure they were stable.”

“A fair point. But also a direct quote from the Qun, if I’m not mistaken,” Fenris says, resisting the smirk that tugs at his face. It seems that Lavellan has never been confronted for the chaos _he_ caused. It feels good to be the one to drag his head out of the sand.

Lavellan lets out an angry huff. “Those mages needed help. Guidance.”

“Is that what you called it?” Merrill asks. Fenris feels the same sort of pride that Hawke told him he’d felt when he was first teaching Carver to fight.

“I know your part in keeping the empress in place. The Divine as well,” Fenris says. “Do you think that’s helped any of us? Or was the status quo simply easier to maintain?”

“I needed to keep the peace while we went after Corypheus.”

“And did you think for a moment of what happened after that?” Fenris asks, but Lavellan won’t meet his eyes anymore.

Merrill speaks before Lavellan can dig up some new excuse. “Have you ever been to an alienage? Nothing has changed. I had so much hope for you, but — “ She shakes her head. “Everyone called you the Herald of Andraste. And did you ever deny it? Did you ever defend our gods? Or did you really believe in those stories?”

“You don’t understand the position I was in. Of course I wanted to speak up, but I had no choice — “

“Did you also have no choice when it came to recruiting that altus?” Fenris asks, making Lavellan mouth a curse. “Yes, Hawke did _indeed_ mention that. The dear friend you tried to hide away while Hawke risked his life for you?”

“Dorian isn’t — “

Fenris doesn’t let him finish. There’s no justification in the world for associating with that sort and letting him run back to Tevinter with his head still attached. “You can’t blame Merrill for not putting her faith in you. I can’t imagine any elf would.”

Lavellan’s shoulders slump like he’s lost the will to keep them upright. “I did what I could to serve the people.”

“You could have done more by never setting foot in the Conclave,” Fenris says. Lavellan’s mouth snaps shut. And while the shadows make it hard to tell, Fenris swears he sees Merrill nodding her agreement.

* * *

“This is … not what I expected.”

The field is larger than the main courtyard of Hightown and lit by a scattering of torches and bonfires. An arc of tents and land-ships enclose it on one side; people come and go from them with arms full of everything from tableware to musical instruments to blankets with intricate weavings of color. On the other side, where the lights and activity dwindle away, the edge of a cliff drops off into darkness. Throughout the clearing, several hundred elves mingle about. While pockets of them are dancing, singing, or gathered around pots of fragrant food, for the most part, they seem to be just … sitting around.

“Thought we’d all be dancing naked around a fire, did you?” Lavellan asks.

Fenris won’t confirm or deny the idea. “Are you saying you haven’t done that?”

“Not sober,” Lavellan murmurs.

Merrill looks around with wide, shining eyes, as if she’s found the largest pile of gold in the entirety of Thedas. Or something like that. Fenris can’t think of any sight that would have him gawking like this.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure it’s quite different from your Andrastian festivals — there’s so many of you, there isn’t such a need to gather like this, is there?” Merrill asks, talking far too fast. “But the point of this first night is to leave behind what’s outside. Find a way to focus on the now. Find connection to each other, to the land we’re on, to this present moment.”

Merrill sounds like she’s reciting a passage she’s read nightly since she was born. A man walks by, greeting them with a nod. Tucked under his arm is a hefty amount of parchment and a handful of quills tied together with string.

“Oh, that must be a scribe!” Merrill exclaims. “It’s incredible. Did you know we still have first person accounts of Arlathvhens going back hundreds of years, maybe even more than that? You have to be able to write in Common and Elvhen, so they’re usually Firsts or Seconds.”

“Sounds like a thrilling way to spend a festival,” Fenris says.

With her staff planted in the ground, Merrill presses her cheek against to its wood and watches as the man finds a blanket to sit on and spreads his quills, ink, and parchment in an arc in front of him. Merrill lets out a long, wistful sigh. “I always wanted that job.”

Fenris doesn’t know what to say to that, so he asks, “This is it then?”

“Well, there are probably people worshipping off by themselves too. Praying by the creek, taking a walk, catching up on sleep — “

“You’d call sleeping a form of worship?”

“If it’s what you need to be here in full tomorrow, then yes, of course it is,” Merrill says.

“Is that not just as valid as pretending to listen to some old man lecture while you clasp your hands together?” Lavellan asks.

Fenris doesn’t know what it is that has Lavellan thinking he’s in any place to be snide, but he doesn’t much like it. “At least the Maker has a chance of being real.”

Lavellan shuts his mouth again, thankfully. Merrill doesn’t seem to have heard, stepping forward into the lights like she’s been drawn in by a spell. She stops, breaking out of the trance, and turns around with a soft smile. “You’ll be alright on your own, won’t you, Fenris?”

“Always have been.”

With a bounce in her step that’s almost a skip, Merrill leaves for the group of elves singing and banging on drums next to a few erratic dancers. Of course that’s the area she chose. He bets that if Hawke were here, he would have bee-lined over to the largest pot of food.

Fenris looks over to see Lavellan still standing there, arm hugged across his chest.

Fenris gestures towards the other elves. “Aren’t you going to go, I don’t know — “

Lavellan gives a sullen shake of his head. “I’m not really in a place to leave things behind right now. Might as well just watch out for anything strange.”

“Well, I’ve got this angle covered,” Fenris says. “Go watch somewhere else.”

Lavellan straightens out of his moping slump and rolls his eyes. Without another word, he wanders off in the direction of the cliffs.

Fenris would rather not get any closer to the crowds. He doesn’t want to deal with the questions when someone realizes the lines on his face only look like vallaslin from a distance, nor does he want to be pushed to participate in any of this. So he finds a tree away from the lights and leans against it, breathing in the smells of freshly fried breads.

If Solas knew this mess was what awaited him, Fenris is going to find a way to wring his neck — even if that means crawling physically across the Fade. _Peacekeeping_ shouldn’t involve supervising the end of an ill-advised relationship. _It will be fine,_ he tells himself. Tomorrow, they’ll take the Iron Bull to the local Chantry and arrange transport to Kirkwall. Lavellan will leave; Hawke will comfort Merrill. And finally, Fenris will return his attention to the issue at hand.

And then there’s a crash, like a conjured bolt of lightning hitting its target.

Fenris’s eyes snap open. He whips his head around for the source of the noise, scanning the crowds for Merrill and finding a small relief in the fact that she seems unharmed. The rest of the elves have paused in their ongoings, and he follows the path of their collective gazes up to a wooden platform with a large bronze gong propped up on it.

A woman stands next to it, holding a mallet. She lets the gong shake off the rest of the sound before she speaks. “Andaran atish’an,” she says with a voice loud enough to reach the edges of the clearing. “On behalf of the Theldis and Asharil, we are thankful for the chance to be here. After losing so many, our clans had no choice but to merge.” She clings to the mallet and dips her head. The motion is reflected in the many bowed necks of the crowd. “They wanted us gone, but against all odds, we remain. We ask for prayers for our new clan, and for the ones who weren’t so fortunate.”

There’s silence for a minute, before the woman sets the mallet down and walks away. The music and voices return like a tentative creature emerging from a cave.

Fenris can’t do much but watch. Merrill sits and sings, voice melding together with the others in a melody that trickles up and down in Elvish phrases he can’t understand. But it doesn’t take a trained ear to hear that there are differences in the lyrics coming from the singers. There are moments where the sounds don’t blend, where disagreements on words and notes create dissonance in the air.

Fenris feels the rapidly increasing beat vibrate through his chest. It moves his fingers to drum against his forearm, echoing the rhythm. He catches himself and stops. He looks away from the choir, resting his eyes instead on the arc of tents. There are a few smaller, canvas ones, similar to the sort he and Hawke brought for sleeping. The others are as large as rooms. A few of them have their cloth coverings stretched and then folded under at the bottom, likely pinned shut with stakes from the inside. Magisters on the road would exercise similar techniques for their privacy; Fenris never liked how quickly the air in them grew stuffy with heat. An elf that can’t be older than twelve finishes setting one up, then runs off to join the other children in some running game Fenris doesn’t recognize.

In front of the largest tent of them all, a lone woman fusses with the hem of her shirt. No, not her shirt — after a moment of fidgeting, she steps back and looks around, and an untied length of cord hangs from the tent’s front flaps. She paces, and only once she’s scanned the area at least four times does she enter. A second later, her hands emerge and she begins to recreate the knot from the inside, covering the fact that it was ever touched.

Fenris slips his hood over his head and hurries over. Innocent people don’t cover their tracks.

But by the time he’s made it to the tent, she’s managed to get the cord re-tied. He debates whether slicing the cloth open would be worth the hassle. No, he doesn’t want that attention. Not unless it’s necessary.

He listens for approaching footsteps as his fingers work on the gnarled length of cord. It’s not a knot he’s ever seen before — the cord seem to intertwine in infinite loops he can’t wrap his head around.

“Oh, hey, don’t go in there yet.“ Fenris startles as a man speaks directly behind him. “The scribes want a chance to record what’s here first.”

“Right. Excuse me,” Fenris says, not turning around. With his head bowed and hood up, he hopes it does enough to hide his hair and markings. The man doesn’t seem to have anything more to say, but he also doesn’t seem inclined to move until Fenris does. So Fenris pivots, keeping his head angled towards the tent, and walks around the perimeter of it.

He waits. The man doesn’t follow. Once it’s been a few moments and he can’t make out any voices or rustling cloth, he tries again. This time as he unties the tangled knots, he keeps an eye peeled for any elves wandering in the area. He won’t forget again how quiet the Dalish are on their feet. With one last look over his shoulder, he soundlessly slips between the folds of the tent.

The tent is already stuffy. Even a space this large feels cramps with all the contrpations they’ve shoved in it. There are baskets, make-shift shelves, and chests littering the ground, leaving only a narrow winding path for walking. Every container is stuffed to the brim with books, stones, strange tools, orbs, and items he doesn’t recognize. The amount of magic in the air makes his tattoos burn like he’s stuck under the hot sun of Seheron.

The woman is still there, attention fixed on a large tome. She flips through it with hasty fingers and a tense brow, but doesn’t look up at him. She’s got hair cropped tight to her head, a style he hasn’t seen on any other Dalish around here. She looks only a few years older than him and is dressed in dark clothes that hang off her like they were made for someone twice her size. She has the rugged look of someone who, if not for the deep blue tattoo covering half her face, would fit right in at the Hanged Man.

He takes a step. She gasps, and when she tries to slam the book shut, it instead falls between her hands to plummet to the ground. Fenris takes advantage of her shock to lunge forward and grab the book, knocking over a basket or two in the process.

“Wait — “ She reaches out and gets a hand on the book’s spine, but her strength is no match for his. He jerks the book away, and she makes one last more feeble grab for it before her eyes drift upward and her face goes pale. It’s a typical reaction to the sword attached to his back, the size of which Hawke had laughed about as he’d presented it to Fenris.

“What are you doing here?” She says, stammering over the first few syllables.

“I should ask you that.”

She collects herself, folding her arms over her chest in a show of indignation that Fenris is sure is actually an attempt to hide the tremor of her hands. “I’m a scribe. I’m taking inventory.”

“A scribe, yes?” Fenris flips through the book. It’s mostly in Common, but he finds a page with a short passage written in the illegible loops and curves of the elven language. “What does this say, then?”

Her wide eyes stare at the page. Her throat bobs. “I shouldn’t need to tell you that.”

At least she’s a poor liar. She could have made up any esoteric nonsense, and Fenris wouldn’t have known any better. “How about telling me what you’re really doing here?” he asks, shutting the book.

She takes another long glance at his sword, his face, the armor on his shoulders, and then her expression changes. Her head tilts and, strangely, she seems to relax. “Oh. You’re Fenris, aren’t you?”

“How do you know that?”

She opens her mouth but is interrupted by another crash that rattles the items on shelves. This time, his mind jumps to _gong_ instead of a mage gone mad. The woman startles, but she recovers quickly enough to slip away, climbing over a chest to stay out of reach even as he grabs for her. At the flaps of the tent, she pauses. “That’s probably best to save for another time.”

And then she leaves. Damn.

Fenris’s instincts tell him to rush after her. But this isn’t Lowtown, where he could hold a sword to a man’s neck and demand answers in the middle of a market with hardly a second glance. Even if he caught up to her, there’d be little he could do at this moment.

So instead, he opens the book. The Dalish have a peculiar way of writing Common, meshing the letters together into long strings that begin to resemble Elvish. It gives him a headache.

Thankfully, he happens upon a page with a map, and that’s something he knows well how to read. It’s a familiar outline of the countries around the Waking Sea with Elvish symbols dotting the land, concentrated in the Dales but some as far north as Tevinter. In the top left, he sees _7890 FA_ written in bold, and with a quick flip ahead, he finds another map marked _7900 FA._ He shifts his gaze to the margins, where a column of text stretches the height of the page, each row with a different one of those symbols.

He reads: _Vahari - 53, Lavellan - 38._

Another ring of the gong shakes the tent, but it’s cut off before the vibrations can fade to their natural end. It sounds as if someone’s grabbed the plate and forced it silent.

Fenris sets the book down and rushes out. The woman, as he expected, is long gone. There’s no trace of movement, not even a ripple in the side of a tent, so he runs back to the edge of the clearing as the final drumbeats and voices fade away. Hundreds of people wait, faces turned towards the gong and its platform, and Fenris takes advantage of the stillness to search for cropped hair and blue tattoos in the mass of people. No luck; but if she is in that crowd, she’ll need to come out of hiding eventually.

Then, he looks up.

It’s Merrill at the gong. Lavellan’s hand is gripping the bronze, his body blocking Merrill as she holds the mallet to her chest.

“Kaffas,” Fenris mutters. He sneaks his way over and ducks behind a tree around the back of the platform. It was stupid to think he could leave either of them unsupervised.

Lavellan speaks in hushed hysterics. “Wait, listen to me, you can’t — “

“What’s wrong? Did you want to tell them instead?”

“No!” Lavellan tries to grab the mallet, but Merrill holds it out of his reach. “Merrill, please, stop. Think of what it will do to them.”

“You want … you mean to hide this? But it’s so exciting, this is the biggest thing we’ve learned — “

“They don’t need to know! How do you expect people to live with that knowledge? You want everyone else here to feel sick every time they see their vallaslin in a mirror?” Lavellan’s voice cracks. He lets the gong fall, and it hums a low tone as it sways. Merrill looks at him with an expression bordering the lines of bewilderment and disappointment.

An older man steps towards them, smiling in spite of the confusion in his brow. “Is something wrong, lethallin? Give her a chance to speak.”

Lavellan shuts his mouth and stops trying for the mallet. Perhaps it dawned on him what an asshole he looks like.

But Merrill doesn’t get her chance. The silence is swept away by a wave of voices that starts at the foot of the platform and spreads throughout the clearing.

_“Isn’t that — “_

_“One arm? It has to be.”_

Lavellan mouths a curse as he turns his body, facing his left side away from the crowd that tightens its gaps before them.

_“ — showed up here, huh?”_

Merrill appears unfazed by the attention. In fact, she seems to welcome it. She turns to the flock of people, and in with the loudest voice Fenris has ever heard from her, she says, “Andaran atish — “

“Merrill, _please_ just go sit,” Lavellan says.

The crowd comes alight.

“ — _Merrill_ — “

_“Of the Sabrae?”_

_“Why would she come here?”_

Merrill takes a step back, while Lavellan turns away from the crowd, giving only Fenris the chance to see him cringe and pinch the bridge of his nose. This isn’t going well. Fenris considers stepping in, but he imagines the mob learning she brought a “flat-ear” wouldn’t be doing Merrill any favors.

_“We should get out of here, she’s dangerous.”_

_“ — stop her, before she — “_

Something strange happens to Lavellan. For a second, he’s still, head hung while the noise of the crowd to his back grows into a roar. Then the tension in his face fades, and he turns to them with a straight spine and chin held high.

It’s the first time Fenris has seen him actually look like the Inquisitor from Varric’s tales.

“Everyone, please, you don’t need to be afraid,” Lavellan says, voice low with a calm authority. “Merrill’s not a danger to anyone. She’s here for the same reasons as the rest of us.”

_“You didn’t hear?”_

_“ — murdered in cold blood by one of her own — “_

“She was acting in self defense,” Lavellan says. “Don’t believe every story you hear. You all know the Chantry wants to paint us as violent savages. Merrill is just as much a victim of that as the rest of us.”

Merrill turns to Lavellan with wide eyes and her staff held tight to her chest. The roar of voices descends into a rumble punctuated by outcries here and there.

“ _— it’s possible, I suppose — “_

_“He would say that. Killed his whole clan, you know.”_

_“Horns of the same halla.”_

“We’re not your enemies. We only want peace,” Lavellan says. He presses his hand to his chest, a profound gesture Fenris is willing to bet he’s used in plenty of other speeches just like this one. “Remember, ten more years would be a blessing for many of us. Every Arlathvhen is someone’s last. Please, don’t let your distrust ruin this occasion.”

An archer pushes his way through to stand in front of the platform, the bow on his back hitting the temple of the man to his right. “What gives you the right to speak to us like that? You hold no power here.”

But that doesn’t seem to be true. The noise of the crowd dies down considerably, and pensive and solemn faces begin to outnumber the angry. Fenris reluctantly acknowledges what a feat it is to keep a group like this at bay for so long.

“I only want to help,” Lavellan says, some of that authority slipping out of his voice.

“No one wants your help,” the archer says. “You meddled in shem affairs and left your clan to suffer the punishment.”

Fenris can’t see Lavellan’s face, but he does see his spine curl back into a slump. Whatever strength he’d dredged up to play that fake empathetic leader role seems to spill out of him all at once.

“Oh, this isn’t good,” Merrill says. Her eyes dart around until they land on the sliver of Fenris’s face he leans out from behind his tree. He raises his brows at her, a desperate plea for her to get them the hell out of there, but she just shakes her head. Fenris doesn’t want to know what stubborn ideas she has to salvage the situation. None of them can possibly be good.

“Stop this, Dhaven,” a man says, stepping forward to grab the archer’s elbow. “You know that he’s not wrong.”

“ _Dirthara-ma_ ,” the archer snarls as he snatches his arm back.

“Please, just calm down — “

There’s a string of cries as the man falls back into the people behind him. The archer reels his hand back, ready to shove him again. “How many of your clan did you lose to his crimes? Tell me that before you tell me to calm down!”

Fenris wants to step over and drag Merrill and Lavellan away by the ears. They’ve let this go on for far too long.

With people on either side trying to pull him away from the platform, the archer still manages to grab Merrill’s wrist and tug her down so he can speak only inches from her face. “ _Ma banal las halamshir var vhen_. You are _not_ our people.”

Fenris hasn’t seen Merrill freeze like this since they left the cave at Sundermount and came face to face with her clan. Thankfully, Lavellan finally gets the idea, and after freeing Merrill’s wrist from the archer, he takes it himself and hurries her off the platform towards the woods. The archer disappears into the throngs of people, throwing off any hands that try to grab him.

As Lavellan and Merrill rush past Fenris, a woman emerges from the crowd with a staff strapped to her back. Fenris gets enough of a glimpse of her scowling face before she turns to recognize her as the guard in the trees who had begrudgingly allowed them pass. “Let me go after them. I’ll take responsibility for this,” she says over the cacophony that’s erupted.

“ _No_. Leave them be.” A voice like the clap of thunder bellows from behind the front lines of people. Yet another staff is used to both part the crowd and support the weight of an elderly woman as she drags herself forward.

“Keeper, this is my fault, we can’t just — “

The older woman only needs to rest a hand on the guard’s shoulder to quiet her. She smiles at the guard with the knowing look of a parent calming a child overwhelmed by the world. “There is no need to go after them,” she says, and Fenris hopes that will be the end of it. He doesn’t need yet another problem to carry on this trip.

But then as she drops her hand, she turns away from the guard. And in a voice hardly above a whisper, she addresses the the silent sea of faces before her. ”They are proof of the dangers of going astray. Whatever they deserve will come to them in time.”


	6. Chapter 6

Nebel is used to long days and little sleep. But now, eyelids drooping as he slumps against a tree, he feels like he’s been climbing the Frostbacks for days and the peak is still beyond the clouds.

He doubts Merrill would be pleased if he dozed off. Once they’d gotten out of sight of the rest of the festival, she’d insisted on waiting for Fenris.

Nebel is free to go, thanks to Bull. But it’s also thanks to Bull that even though he wants nothing more than to find a place to rest his head, he needs to stay and wait. There’s still a chance that Merrill — or Fenris, more realistically — will decide that Bull is better off dead.

And Solas may still make an appearance tonight. Can’t forget that, despite it all.

The drums shake the tree behind him, reverberating down his back just enough to keep him awake. Merrill sits with her cloak wrapped tight around her shoulders and her chin tucked into her chest.

Did she have any idea this was what awaited her? She had to have known she wasn’t going to be welcomed back with open arms. Or maybe not — she did think it would be a good idea to tell the Dalish of the Evanuris, so she’s far more naive than he originally thought. More volatile too. And he never imagined she’d go so far as to call him an _enslaver_ , of all things.

But despite that, it’s like he has a rash he can’t itch when he’s sitting next to someone looking so miserable. He can’t just ignore her; he needs to say _something_.

“I’m sorry about what happened with your Keeper, Merrill.” He picks up a twig to fiddle with. “It’s not easy.”

She doesn’t look up, and for a minute, Nebel wonders if she’s going to bother responding.

“No, it’s really not,” she finally says.

“Did you see anyone here from your clan?”

“No. The loss of a Keeper isn’t something a few years can fix. Not when the First has left as well.” She sighs. “I’m sure they couldn’t spare the resources for so much travel.”

He wonders if she’s grateful for that — if time has healed the wound between them, if they’d take her back, if they’d be happy to know she’s safe.

“Thank you for sending me flowers back then,” he says. “That whole time of my life is a blur, admittedly. But having someone who I'd never even met send me something like that — it stands out.”

He remembers pressed blue petals falling from an envelope to Skyhold’s cold floors. A note in perfect cursive, though he doesn’t know if he ever read the words. When so few others would even acknowledge what had happened, too afraid to bring it up, here was a stranger offering a little token of sympathy.

She still did that, even after Bull.

“I’m sorry if I never got back to you,” he says.

“You didn’t, no,” she says. “But I’m glad you liked them.”

Nebel puts on a small smile, an attempt at commiseration in the midst of this misery. Here they are, two elves without their clans, crouched in the dirt at the Arlathvhen of all places, waiting for an elf from Tevinter who’s apparently found more welcome than them.

Merrill looks to the stars. Nebel hides his disappointment by tipping his head back against the bark. If she’s not willing to entertain any conversation, he might as well get a moment of rest. His eyes have been burning since the moment he first laid them on her, lightning coursing through his veins as he’d pathetically clung to Bull. The memory feels like a nightmare he’d watched happen to somebody else, not something that had happened only hours ago.

“What do you think I should do with Bull?” Merrill suddenly asks.

Nebel opens his eyes reluctantly. “You’re asking me?”

“Yes. You know him better than any of us. Is there something you’d like me to do? Release him? Keep him imprisoned?” She purses her lips as she taps her fingers on her kneecap. “I can kill him too, though that might get messy.”

“No. Please.” He stops himself. He’s begging, and he swore he wouldn’t, not after everything she and Fenris said on the road. He takes a breath and focuses on the air in his lungs, not the pounding in his head. “I want you to let him go. I don’t expect you to forgive him. I don’t know that I will, either. But he deserves the chance to try to make amends.“

“You think this can be amended?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. But … “ But he loves him. But he can’t let this be the end, not without some answers. “I don’t know how your clan handled misdoings,” he says instead. “But we only ever imprisoned people to keep them from harming others. Or themselves. Never as a punishment.”

He knows firsthand. He remembers spitting obscenities at anyone and everyone who’d brought him food during that week confined to an aravel, when Keeper Deshanna had caught him sneaking away to the human city even after she’d warned everyone to stay put. She’d made him _in particular_ swear not to go near it, but the unfamiliar sounds and lights had drawn him in anyway.

“You forget that I was a First,” she says. He bites his tongue, regretting saying anything. Merrill lets out a sigh that’s barely audible over the beating drums. “Yet you were the one they listened to back there.”

“Only some of them.”

“It was enough. Even without your title, your voice carries weight here.” Her fingers stand out against the darkness as she picks at the fraying hem of her cloak. “Not like mine.”

That may be true, but Nebel has no intention of using it again. He needs to discuss the Evanuris with Merrill, clearly. Maybe he can impart some empathy for the rest of the Dalish, the ones who aren’t going to see the truth as a fascinating history lesson. He’d like to avoid that conversation tonight, though. Better to stay in Merrill’s good graces, at least while she’s got Bull captive.

“What are you going to do now?” he asks.

Merrill finally smiles, now that she’s alone in it. “We’re all blind to our own tangles sometimes, aren’t we? It’s so easy it is to see them in other people.”

“I … don’t really know what you mean.”

Nebel hears the sound of soil crunching under feet, growing louder by the second. The dim moonlight catches on a sliver of white between two oaks.

Merrill stands and brushes off her pants. “It looks like Fenris is back. Shall we go have a chat then?”

“Sure it can’t wait until morning?”

She smiles with tight lips and amused, weary eyes. For a moment, she really does look like a Keeper. “I’m happy to keep the Iron Bull tied to that tree all night if you are.”

* * *

Nebel expects the glade to be the same as they’d left it, like returning to a book he’s set down and only needing to turn the page to find his place. But life has a terrible habit of carrying on without him, and he comes back to an upright tent, a boiling pot over a campfire, and a few sticks stuck in the ground in the beginnings stages of some inscrutable structure.

“How’d it go?” Hawke says with a grin too wide for the late hour. His knife keeps striking the wood even as his eyes look up from his whittling.

“These two were expelled by an angry mob.” Fenris shrugs his sword down next to the tent. “Besides that, rather normal, I presume. Though I don’t know what _normal_ usually entails here.”

The sound of metal scraping wood grates at Nebel’s ears. He’d like to tear that knife from Hawke’s hands and shove it somewhere unthinkable.

Bull looks like he could be sleeping. He’s not. The man can tell as many lies with his body as he can with his words, and this is one Nebel’s seen a thousand times. His hands are still bound above his head — a terrifying testament to the range and durability of Merrill’s magic.

Bull’s eye opens. It lands on Nebel, and _damn_ , their eyes meet for a flash before Nebel can twist his head away. There’s no telling what Bull can read from a single look.

“Alright, well. I’m ready to get this over with.” Hawke sets down his knife and woodblock. “It’d be nice to get some sleep before the sun is up. Or these awkward silences choke me to death.”

“Hold up,” Bull says. “Merrill. Mind if I say something?”

“You’ve had an awful lot of chances for that,” she says.

“I know, I know. This is past its deadline.” Bull rolls his head in an arc, looking as sheepish as he can. Nebel knows that if his hands were free, he’d have one rubbing his neck. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

“The theatrics begin,” Fenris murmurs.

Nebel pinches the bridge of his nose, willing himself to calm down and not wring Fenris's neck. It's like the man will starve if he doesn't have someone to be angry at. “Would you _please_ just let him speak?”

Bull looks away from Merrill only long enough to give Nebel an acknowledging nod. “I’m never gonna be able to make it up to you. That mirror is long gone. But I would if I could.”

“Do you think that’s all that this is about?” Merrill says.

“No. I get that.” Bull shifts his weight with a grunt. He looks as uncomfortable as he does whenever someone asks a nosey question about Seheron. “I used your trust against you. I’m not askin’ you to forgive me. But I am sorry.”

Fenris doesn’t give Merrill a chance to react to the apology. “The Qunari don’t feel regret about their orders.”

“Yeah, but Tal-Vashoth do.” Bull snorts. “The Qun wouldn’t have me back even if I got down on my knees and begged.”

“You can tell that to the interrogators in Kirkwall,” Fenris says.

Hawke laughs. “Plenty of talented ones up there. Trust me, I’d know.”

“Perhaps they can get the real story of who you’re working for.” Fenris shifts his gaze to Nebel. “Somewhere _outside_ the influence of the Inquisition.”

Kirkwall. They want to send him to _Kirkwall_ of all places, and sure, Nebel technically holds a title there, but that will mean nothing if Varric hears what Bull’s done to Merrill. Nebel’s lungs burn with forgotten breaths. He doesn’t know what he wants, what any of this means for him and Bull. He can’t make that decision, not yet, not here, not when he can’t even look at Bull without his heart hurting. But the one thing he knows is that he can’t let Bull be locked up across the sea.

“Wait. You don’t understand,” Nebel says, but those are the only words he’s planned. How is he supposed to convince them of anything, when he’s the one who doesn’t understand how any of this could happen? He lets his thoughts pour out, unfiltered and desperate. “He was under their control. You have to know it’s not that simple to throw off decades of brainwashing.”

Fenris flinches and turns away. Nebel continues, “You can’t possibly believe he’s still with them. He put his life on the line to stop them at the Palace, we saw the Dreadnaught burn — “

“Hey, Lavellan.” Hawke leans forward, a cringe of a smile on his face. His voice is soft, like he’s speaking to a child. “I’m sure this ain’t easy to hear. But you’ve got to open your eyes.”

“They are open, Hawke. I can see perfectly well how desperate you are for revenge against any man with a pair of horns — “

“I’ll let him go.”

“Merrill — “ Fenris reels his head to face her, but she holds up a hand to stop him.

“On one condition. You — “ She crooks a finger at Nebel. “ _You_ will be the one to tell the Dalish the truth of our Creators. Our history. Everything. They refuse to hear it from me, but they _will_ listen to you. I will not hold either of you any longer, but you must swear to tell them by the third night.”

_Is there something you’d like me to do?_

“You didn’t actually want my opinion back there,” he says in horror. “You just wanted to see how you could force me into this.”

Merrill hides a sly grin behind her hand. Hawke bursts into laughter. “Oh, I _love_ sneaky Merrill,” he cackles.

Nebel can’t believe it. “You … after all of that, you’d still — “

“Oh!” Merrill pounds a fist into her other hand. “Right, yes. You’ll need some blood as well. I nearly forgot.”

“What a shame that would have been,” Fenris says.

“I know, truly. But I can’t have him running off in the middle of the night — oh, you’re kidding.”

Hawke folds his hands together and shakes them in an exaggerated prayer. “Thank the Maker, I won’t be on prison warden duty anymore. You don’t know what we went through earlier.”

“Pity,” Bull says.

Nebel curses himself for letting her soft demeanor lure out any ounce of vulnerability. He can’t do that to his people. He’s made life hard enough for them; this truth will be the final stone on their backs. He has a duty to protect them — a debt, even — but despite that, he still needs Bull free.

_Does he?_

He could walk away from here, keep his silence, leave it all behind —

A loud slap echoes as Hawke claps his hands down on his knees. “Well, I’d say Merrill is being plenty fair.”

“Perhaps more than she should be,” Fenris says.

Yes, it’s somehow _fair_ to force him to set fire to his own culture to make up for crimes he didn’t commit. Fair to make him risk his life to some blood magic even Merrill doesn’t understand. All because his stupid heart can’t let go of the man in front of him.

But he’ll come up with a plan to get out of this. He won’t let his people suffer like he has.

“Fine. Okay,” he says. He doesn’t miss how Bull’s eye widens or how his mouth drops open like he’s got some protest to make. So, this wasn’t part of his plan after all. “It only lasts a few days, right?”

“Yes. Just enough for me to be sure you follow through.” Merrill tilts her head, offering a small smile. Nebel wonders if his own grin that she’d refused in the woods had looked this condescending. “It’s for the best, truly. Don’t they deserve the truth?”

“No one deserves this,” he says. “But if you swear to let Bull free, once and for all, I’ll do it.”

“It’s a deal,” Merrill says, and she pulls out her knife.

Another cut, another red glow. She places the orb in his hand in the same way the elder clan members would press fruit into his palm when there was extra to go around. His heart beats fast as he swallows it, and the taste of copper makes him shiver. It’s unnervingly warm.

“Gonna give me back my hands now?”

Merrill’s eyes flick back to Bull, but she doesn’t move. She taps her staff, again and again, and Nebel’s mind rushes to come up with a plan for what to do if she refuses. But finally her hand waves, and the vines around Bull pull themselves back into the ground. Bull controls the fall of his arms, a wince on his face as he settles his clasped hands into his lap. Nebel can only imagine how little blood they must have left in them.

Hawke stands, stretching his arms long and high above his head. “Well. That’s all I’ve got in me. Lavellan, Bull: I’ll see you around, I guess. Hopefully not too much.” He gives both Merrill and Fenris two quick pats on the shoulders before ducking into the tent.

Fenris stands watch as Merrill steps over to Bull, planting her staff in the ground in front of her. Still massaging his hands against his knees, Bull looks up at her with no expression other than a raised eyebrow.

She leans in, only inches from his face. “Whatever happens, know this,” she whispers. “If I hear a _single_ word of you causing trouble for my people, I will make you regret ever crawling into this world.”

Merrill disappears into Hawke’s tent without another word.

“She was overly generous,” Fenris mutters as Bull collects his axe. Nebel has no doubt that Fenris will spin around any of his responses into some harsh retort, so he says nothing. Nebel resists returning his sneer as he bends to retrieve his own sleeping pack. Bull holds out a hand. He always carries it; the weight is little burden compared to his axe. Nebel ignores him, shrugging the pack over his shoulder and adjusting the strap until it doesn’t dig into his skin.

“I’m going to find somewhere to make camp,” he says, picking a direction at random to lug their bags to.

There’s no invitation, but Bull follows anyway.

* * *

Nebel regrets bringing only one tent. He also regrets never learning to set it up with only one hand.

The stakes he’s rammed into the ground are uneven, but it took too long to get them even vaguely stable for him to be willing to risk adjusting them again. He holds the final stake between his feet and bangs at it with a rock, and while the violent swings feel good, he’d rather be done with this whole stupid thing.

He fights to hide his surprise when familiar footsteps hit the dirt behind him. When Bull had said he’d _be right back_ , Nebel had figured there were even chances that Bull was telling the truth or that he’d gone to find the nearest ship to flee the continent.

Bull places a ceramic bowl next to Nebel, and Nebel slams the rock down once more before the scent of fiddleheads give him pause. The soup looks like rainwater collected in the shade of dirty trees, but it smells like spring holidays. He breathes in memories of days when the ferns had just unfurled and the nights were full of laughter and music.

He wonders how Bull managed to convince someone to offer him a bowl. Maybe he’d just stolen it.

Bull squats to his left. “Hey. Let me help.”

“I’ve got it.”

“Come on, k — Nebel.” Bull’s fingers hover over Nebel’s like he might grab them. Thankfully, he doesn’t. “You’re asleep on your feet. Let me give you a hand and we can both finally get some shut-eye.”

“I can handle this,” Nebel says just as a stake slips and the tent falls apart into a pile of tangled cloth and rope, and that’s just _great_ , as great as everything else about this day, and he doesn’t feel any better after letting out a frustrated cry and hurling the rock against a tree, but who in this damn forest is going to stop him?

Not Bull, certainly. Maybe in another place and time Bull would be encouraging him, giving him the permission to _let it out_ and handing him the next, even heavier rock. But here, Bull looks patient and calm and collected, and how has Nebel never before realized how patronizing that expression is?

“Fuck it,” Nebel mutters. “My bedroll works as a hammock. You can have the tent.”

“No. You’re gonna feel like shit tomorrow.”

“Going to feel like shit either way.” Nebel walks over to his pack. “Take the tent.”

Bull looks like he has a novel worth of words waiting to come out. He says: “Alright.”

“Great.“ Nebel presses his hand to his forehead. It aches. Everything aches. But the sleep he needs isn’t coming with all these thoughts rattling in his head. “I’m going to go think.”

“You sure? Not gonna do more than burn holes in your skull at this point.” It’s a rough translation of a Qunlat saying, one that Bull would always use to get him away from the papers on his desk and into the comfort of his bed, wrapped up and safe in his arms —

Nebel clenches his fist around the leather strap of his bag. “Yes. I’ll be fine.”

“Watch your back out there. Got a bad feeling about this place.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

Bull doesn’t say anything. When Nebel looks into his eye, he sees his own exhaustion mirrored. Regret, maybe. Guilt. Frustration, bundling it all up into a scowl. Or maybe he’s projecting all of that. He doesn’t know what’s going on in Bull’s head, not really. Why did it ever feel like he did?

He walks away.

He tries to walk away.

He thinks of walking away, and bile slides up his throat. Because in every muscle and fiber struggling to hold him together, he knows that he just got his last look at Bull.

“Hey,” Nebel whispers as he turns around. Bull hasn’t touched the tent. Hasn’t even retrieved the stone. Nebel knows he wasn’t going to. “Are you going to be here when I get back?”

Surprise flashes across Bull’s face, then vanishes. Nebel knows how it would have gone. Maybe Bull would have left a note, maybe not. It’s easy to imagine him slipping away without a trace, like a man who’s just put down a beast too sick to live.

He’d think he was doing Nebel a favor.

“If you want to leave, then so be it. But don’t go just to save me a decision,” Nebel says.

“I’ll be here,” Bull says casually, as if his plans haven’t just been dragged into the open. There’s no telling if he’s lying or not. There never is.

But the sickness dissipates enough to walk away, so Nebel takes that chance.

* * *

On the outskirts of the festival, beyond the warm lights of the aravels and the groups of people gathered around simmering stews, Nebel sits on a cliff that overlooks a dark expanse of water. He can still hear the laughter and bustling activity behind him, but with his legs hanging over the edge, all he sees are the stars in the sky and the water that mirrors them.

Trying not to think just makes the memories more vivid. In the shimmering stars, he sees Bull’s eye, the glint of his axe, the strike of a lightning bolt. And as the stars blink in and out of existence, he relives the moment Bull’s eye had lost its shine again and again.

_You’re a coward and a liar._

Dorian has said that Nebel never has permission to touch his amulet — _no, you sweet, lovely fool, time magic doesn’t work like you think it does_ — but he still longs for that second chance.

He opens his notebook, flipping through sketches and notes of plants, herbs, fungi — a life on the road has meant too many mysterious flora to keep them all straight in his head. He doesn’t have anything new to add, not tonight. But it brings him comfort to read back through the older entries, to trace his fingertips over the hasty charcoal sketches and remember crouching by the side of the road to scribble them as his companions rushed on ahead.

“Aneth ara, lethallin.”

He snaps his notebook shut. It’s not like it’s Inquisition secrets or a raunchy letter or anything worthwhile as blackmail, but the drawings and notes feel infinitely more personal than any of that. He looks up to see an older woman, leaning her weight on a staff, smiling down at him with the soft but self-assured look of a Keeper who has been through dozens of harsh winters.

“I am Keeper Nydharani,” she says. “Of the Vahari clan. May I sit?”

He nods, too startled to find any words. He feels like a child caught playing outside the encampment long after the hunters have returned for the night, and he can’t place exactly why. Perhaps it’s in the way she eases herself down to sit by his side, taking all the time she needs for each movement without a single apology, or in the way she methodically cracks each finger knuckle against her staff just as Deshanna used to do. The calluses on her hands draw his eyes; it’s unusual for a mage, let alone a Keeper, to have such hardened hands. Her clan must be a busy one.

He remembers his manners with a start. “Nebel. Well, um — Nebelir’vunema.” The name feels strange on his tongue, like a secret he’d whisper to a friend in those otherworldly moments just before sleep, when darkness would blur the lines of what should and shouldn’t be said. “Of the former Lavellan tribe. Hunter.”

Nydharani tilts her head, hair falling down to sweep against her staff. “Former? You’re right here, my child of the waning moon.” She grins at the long-winded translation of his name. If she’s perturbed by his sudden, unintentional shift away from her, she doesn’t show it.

“I’m sorry about what happened to your clan. I met Keeper Deshanna at the last Arlathvhen. She was lovely. Wise. Her death was a loss to us all. But I don’t remember seeing you with her. Is this your first?” He manages to nod. “Welcome, then.”

He doesn’t mean to let his doubt to show, but he knows he didn’t hide it well enough when she bursts into laughter. “Yes, you _are_ in fact welcome here. Hold your head high,” she says, even as he shifts his eyes to the water below. “There’s division amongst us lately, but that’s to be expected with the state of the world these days.”

“That’s a charitable way to put it.”

“Oh, da’len. The state of the world is not your fault. We’ve been fighting this fight for longer than the records of history. You weren’t going to change everything in a single year.”

“But did I change anything? Is your clan better off?”

“You’re a dour one, aren’t you?” She laughs. “Every week, it seems, there was a new story circulating of the Inquisitor lending a helping hand to those without one. Refugees, elves, mages. In your wake, we found pride.”

It’s too kind to be true. It’s nothing more than a platitude from a Keeper with an instinct to care for the people around her. And she didn’t answer his second question.

“But there’s something strange in the air now,” she continues. “Our people are leaving the clans, running off to places only the Creators know. Or perhaps it’s not the clans they’re leaving, but their leaders.”

He should say something. He feels that same itch as he had with Merrill to offer some sort of comfort, to ask questions, but he can’t seem to focus his mind enough to try.

Nydharani pulls herself to standing, taking a moment to stretch her shoulders out and roll her neck. She offers him one last small, knowing smile before she leaves. “May you find some peace here, lethallin.”

The wind blows through the tangled clump of hair at the base of his neck, moist and cold with the lake water it carries. He lobs a pebble over the edge of the cliff, but the surface of the water is too far to hear any splash. One strong gust, one misstep, and he’d be sinking into that black expanse too.

He sighs, sinking his head to his knees, and tries to ease the pressure out of his temples.

“Are you around, Nebel?”

Nebel startles at the voice coming from his bag, sending a handful more pebbles flying. It had been like this at Skyhold as well. Whenever he most wanted to be alone, people took that moment to flock to him.

He fishes around in his pack before he pulls out his durgen’dirth — a _sending crystal_ , as the Imperium named them after stealing the secrets of their creation and claiming them as their own — and wraps his hand around it. As soon as his skin touches the cold surface, the stone shines like it’s got a red firefly stuck within. “Yeah,” he says, holding it at his chin.

“Oh, thank the Maker,” Dorian says. Nebel can hear the smile on his face. “You would not _believe_ the nonsense that Tyberius pulled today. It’s like he spends each night studying new ways to become the greatest ignoramus Tevinter has ever seen.”

“Oh?” Nebel mutters.

There’s a pause on the other end, too long to be blamed on the crystal. “Is something wrong? Did I wake you?”

“No.” Nebel tries to instill some feeling back into his voice. “Things are just … things are weird, right now.”

“ _Weird_. Might I convince you to elaborate?”

“Just — weird.”

Dorian hums. Nebel can picture his narrowed, disbelieving eyes and his finger tapping his chin. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Nebel doesn’t. He doesn’t expect to want that anytime soon.

“Or would you perhaps prefer that I simply lull you to bed with my dulcet tones?”

Nebel’s lips twitch up. “If you don’t mind.”

“Mind? I normally need to pay for an audience this attentive.“

Nebel lays back in the grass and holds the stone to his ear, eyelids drooping as Dorian tells him of the latest changes in the ever-shifting hierarchies, the egregious political stunts the magisters have been pulling to climb that ladder, and the romantic scandals that plague the court. He misses the details as one story blends into another, but the sound drowns out his thoughts enough for his heart and head to find their way above water onto steady land.

“How are you doing, then?” Nebel asks. “Is it strange being back?”

“It’s … so, so. Change comes slower than I’d like. I didn’t realize how much we needed it until I went south. Returning is — there are things I have trouble with now, that I never looked twice at before.”

“Hm,” Nebel musters. He’s not going to pass judgment for slow progress. Dorian is trying, at least, which is more than he can say for himself.

“Are you quite sure you’re alright?”

Yes. Yes, he’s _fine_. He’s been _fine_ since the day he lost his arm, since his clan died, since the fucking Conclave stole his life away.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Dorian.”

Dorian’s voice drops to a hush, like he’s leaning in close. “What are you possibly talking about?”

Nebel opens his mouth and tries to speak, but his breath catches and he stops. He inhales, shallow and shaky, and then the words pour out of him in a rush. “You’re working on making Tevinter better. Fenris hunts slavers, Varric is restoring Kirkwall. Bull has the Chargers, and I help where I can, but — “ He presses his palm to his forehead. “What good am I doing?”

“Nebel. What are you saying?” Dorian clicks his tongue. “Did you forget that you quite literally saved the world? Multiple times, even?”

“But how many people died by my hand? And how many more suffered because of my stupid decisions?”

“People were going to get hurt no matter what you did. You can’t blame yourself for every death of the last three years.”

“But what am I doing _now_? I can’t fight. No one gives a shit what I have to say now that I’m not in charge. I’m — ”

He’s interrupted by a frustrated huff on the other side of the line. “Need I remind you exactly why you were the Inquisitor? It was never because of your ability to _fight_ — though you’re a monster with a knife, especially in the dark.” Dorian doesn’t pause this time to give Nebel a chance to refute him. “You were chosen because you can _lead_. Better than the people put into power around here, certainly. People of all sorts want to follow you. Even those of us who would normally be at each other’s throats.”

“You all were at each other’s throats anyway.”

“Yes, well, there’s no preventing that,” Dorian says with a chuckle. “Not when you force me to cross the desert with Sera, you fiend. You’re still not forgiven for that.”

“Hah,” Nebel says, humorless.

“And if leading’s what you want, you know that I’ll be pushing others out of line to be the first to follow you. But let me tell you this: if you wanted nothing more than to sleep in that hammock of yours all day and occasionally remember to chat with your ever-so-lonely best friend Dorian, no one could blame you.” Dorian pauses for effect. “You’re worth more than the good you can do.”

It’s easy for Dorian to say that, easy for anyone who can take charge of something more complex than caring for a few potted plants.

“Also, is Sera still with that terrifying dwarf? Put her on with me sometime.” He hears the rustling of Dorian’s mustache twisting between his fingers. “I have an idea for some enchanted prosthetics.”

Dorian has good intentions. He deserves to feel like he’s made a difference, so Nebel whispers, “Thank you, Dorian,” and he means it, even if his heart still feels numb.

“Of course. I’m well-renowned for my pep talks.” A yawn comes through the stone and Nebel realizes he has no idea how much time has passed. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s stirred all of this up in the first place?”

“Not yet.”

“Fair enough,” Dorian says, and then falls silent, but the crystal stays shining and the sound of breath and distant chimes still comes through. “I’m glad we’re talking again. You went so quiet a few months ago. You had me quite worried.”

“Sorry. It was nothing you’d done, I just … “ There’s no good lie, but there’s no good truth either. “Needed some quiet.”

“I understand. Just let me know when you are ready to talk. I’m always here.” He’s not, not really, but when Nebel shuts his eyes and tilts his head, it does almost feel like there’s a shoulder there to lean on.

The crystal’s light fades as tucks it back into the pockets of his bag. But the cord snags around his wrist, and when it tugs, he can’t help but think of another thread that so often catches his hand. His mouth goes dry with the sudden keen awareness of the weight hanging from his neck. He traces it: starting at the worn leather at the back of his neck, moving to his collarbone, and then wrapping his hand around the cold, heavy half of a tooth. He can’t remember the last time he took it off — without it, he feels barren. Ungrounded. He squeezes, tight enough that the bone digs into his skin, and tries not to think.


	7. Chapter 7

Fenris isn’t a morning person. Hawke once laughed at that claim and told him he can’t say he’s not a morning person if he’s also not an afternoon person, nor an evening person, nor a middle of the night person. Fenris had shoved him off and rolled over to get back to sleep.

So Fenris isn’t surprised that when he wakes to the sound of birds and the light of the rising sun, Hawke isn’t by his side.

He resists the urge to shut his eyes and ignore the day’s existence. He doubts that’s what Solas intended when he “hired” him. With all the speed of a nugg approaching its final days, he tosses his packet of tea into a tin pan and gathers that up with the rest of his things — making sure it’s the tea for waking up, not the one to settle down at night. It’s hard enough as is to get up after a night of tossing about.

He doesn’t expect to see Merrill outside, sitting in front of the ashes of their fire, fingers tangled in her lap. She looks like she slept worse than even him, if at all.

“Morning,” he mutters as he sits across from her.

“Oh, good morning,” Merrill says, straightening her back. “Sorry if I woke you. I tried not to be too loud.”

“You didn’t.”

“That’s a relief. Hawke said I could stay around here, if I wanted. I hope you don’t mind. It’s a little bit… tense, out there.”

There’s a pile of firewood outside the tent. When must Hawke have gotten up if he had the time to gather that already? Whatever the answer, it’s too early. Fenris rubs the sleep from his eyes and asks, “Where’s Hawke?”

“Oh! Right. He said he’s going to go hunting.” Merrill finally relaxes, at least enough to rest her elbows on her knees and lean forward. “There’s so many people here though. Is there going to be enough to go around? We try not to over-hunt when we’re gathered like this. I suppose it should be fine. Hawke’s not the type to be wasteful.”

Fenris tries to prevent his eyes from crossing. Merrill talks more than even Hawke sometimes. At least Hawke usually has a point.

Fenris shakes his canteen and finds it’s been freshly filled — thanks to Hawke, of course. The man must have been up before the sun. Fenris pours most of the water into the pan, then tosses a stick into the fire-pit. “Would you like some tea?”

“Tea? Oh. Yes, I’d … I’d love some tea.” Merrill blinks the surprise off her face. “Thank you.”

Fenris reaches for the flint left by the fire-pit, but Merrill holds up a hand to stop him. With a blue glow and a twitch of her fingers, she ignites a flame. He scowls at the casual use of magic, even if it is convenient. He rolls his eyes and holds the pan above the flame, slightly higher than he normally would.

They wait for the sound of bubbles. The bags under Merrill’s eyes remind him of Iron Bull’s skin, which is a strange enough thought to jolt Fenris’s mind awake. All at once, he remembers the mess of yesterday. Merrill had taken their tent away to some more isolated place — _don’t mind me, I just need a little bit of quiet_ — and Fenris had joined Hawke in their makeshift one. And when Fenris had trouble sleeping in the flimsy shelter, Hawke had held his waist and whispered jokes in his ear. He’d found warmth in the comfort of Hawke’s arms and relief in his words from the angry, resonating voices that may or may not have been real.

Merrill had gone to sleep alone, only hours after recounting what Iron Bull had done to her and being forced out by her people.

“Are you … doing alright?” Fenris asks.

“I’m fine! Completely fine. I just didn’t sleep so well. The winds are rather loud around here, aren’t they?”

“Merrill.” Fenris pulls back the pan and preps two cups with tea leaves before pouring the water into each of them. If Merrill sees the tremble in his fingers — that damn, ever-present shake he can’t seem to throw, she doesn’t say anything. He leaves one cup for himself and passes the other over. As she wraps her hands around it, eyes fixed on the water instead of up at him, he mutters, “You’re a pitiful liar.”

She looks surprised, maybe hurt, and then laughs. Her expression settles into a rueful smile. “I guess I still am. I practiced, truly! Maybe I should ask Hawke for lessons.”

“How are you, really?”

From the strained look on her face, Fenris doubts he’ll get an answer. He doesn’t blame her for not trusting him; he doesn’t trust her either. They may have went through hell together, but it’s not like they even got along back then. Thinking on it now, Fenris can’t remember another time the two of them spoke without the pacifying presence of Hawke nearby as well. Fenris doesn’t know what forces the decision, but Merrill finally lets out a sigh and presses a palm against her temple. “I don’t know. I wish I knew how to feel.”

Fenris doesn’t have a response to that. He doubts there’s any correct ones. He takes a moment to sip his tea and allow Merrill to do the same. She doesn’t say more, so Fenris figures now is as good as ever to get some answers. “You let Iron Bull go.” It’s a question, even if he doesn’t say it as such.

Steam rises in swaying waves as Merrill taps her fingers on the side of her cup. “Does that bother you?”

“He’s another problem to look out for. But it’s your choice, in the end.” Fenris shrugs. “I can’t say I understand your reasoning, though.”

“My people need to learn the truth. Really learn it.” Her voice dips into a derisive mutter. “Not just think that it’s the ravings of some madwoman. That’s more important to me than my own selfish revenge.”

“And what if he puts them in danger? Takes even more relics for the Qun?”

“He may try,” she says, and Fenris can hear plans of lightning and fire in the darkened tone of her voice. “But if we know where we come from, the truth of who we were, we can make so much progress. We know what the Creators were. So much makes sense, so many texts we never understood. And with that framing our research, think of everything we could discover. We can focus so much more time into recreating old magics, medicine, other pieces of history we’ve neglected — ” Merrill stops herself, face turning red. “Sorry. I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

Fenris doesn’t confirm or deny it.

Merrill closes her mouth anyway as she looks to the sky, hands wrapped tight around her cup. “This is our way forward. And I will not let my fear of that man hold us back.”

“I would have killed him. Still going to, if he tries anything.”

After a long while of chewing her lip, she whispers, “I want you to.” She rushes to shake her head at Fenris’s raised brow. “I’m not asking you to. I’m not saying you should. But … he doesn’t understand this fear. I know he doesn’t. Scared that one wrong word might send him after my friends. Always on edge in my own home.” She stares down into her cup. “Or just drinking tea.”

Fenris looks down to his own tea. He hadn’t thought of that.

“But I _want_ him to.” Merrill’s voice drops to a whisper as she hangs her head, as if she’s afraid of the trees hearing her. “And oh, Fenris. How could I think that? I’m not supposed to wish such things on someone. I’m a terrible person, aren’t I?”

She breathes slow, shuddering breaths, the hair around her face nearly falling into the hot liquid. “Oh.” She suddenly blinks and looks up, realization on her face. “I feel guilty. That’s it.”

She’s Hawke’s friend, really. Fenris wonders if she’d even value his thoughts, let alone listen to them — she doesn’t have the best record of listening to anybody. But he’s not going to be able to face Hawke later if he leaves her like this. So he tries to channel the self he puts on when he’s finished killing a caravan of slavers and he’s come face to face with a group of scared, confused people looking to him for any amount of guidance. In general, he prefers that Hawke or whoever else he has with him handle that. Fenris has a habit of saying the wrong thing.

But there are emotions and fears and languages that Hawke has no hope of understanding, and in those moments, Fenris speaks. It’s not easy, but he’s crafted a version of himself that’s capable enough at it to get by.

“No,” he says.

Merrill’s shoulders startle upright and she looks at him, faint red lining her eyes.

“You’re not,” he continues. “At least not because of that.” Merrill looks confused, not reassured — maybe he’ll get this right one day. “It’s not that simple. Since being with Hawke, I’ve … ”

Merrill cocks her head to the side. She seems surprised, maybe by his words, maybe by the fact that he’s saying anything at all. He is as well. His instincts scream that he shouldn’t open up to her — look what happened to Lavellan the night before, his vulnerabilities giving her the leverage she needed to force his hand. He shouldn’t trust a mage, especially not such a volatile one. But there’s a corner of his chest that hurts when he watches her sit there, head hung like it’s too heavy to lift.

So he opens his mouth, and he tries again.

“Hawke has made me feel more things than I ever did before. Happiness. Fear. Rage. But with that comes — other feelings.” Regret. Hatred. The desire to pull someone’s spine out by their mouth. “I’ve done terrible things. And most days, I imagine doing far worse.” Sometimes to the nameless magisters that live in his memories. Sometimes to the shopkeepers who make one too many comments about his hair. Sometimes to himself.

And on the worst days, to Hawke.

Fenris finds his own voice wavering. “But that’s all they are. Thoughts. Nothing more.” He shuts his eyes. He didn’t mean to say this much. “I wouldn’t be here today if I couldn’t forgive those parts of me.”

There’s silence. The world hums a discordant tune, like always. He doesn’t want to see her reaction, be it pity, or judgment, or laughter. He takes a sip of his much-needed tea. It seems to remind Merrill that she’s also been holding a cup in her hands and she raises it as well.

He’s glad she doesn’t have any more questions. Talking so much has drained the last of the energy he mustered up to make it out of the tent.

It’s going to be a long day.

A wistful, roaming melody drifts from Merrill as she rests her chin on her hand and hums. She stares at him over the fire, taking long, slow sips of tea. “You’ve really changed, Fenris. You’ve become so thoughtful,” she says, smiling. “Hawke must be a good influence.”

“Don’t push it,” he grumbles. “And if you’re looking for a hug, ask Hawke, not me.”

Merrill laughs. Behind his tea, Fenris hides a smile.

* * *

“Here,” Fenris says, offering the gift in his palm.

Hawke looks up from his seat between two gnarled roots of a tree, hood still drawn over his head. He’d chosen to stay in the forest, not keen on attempting to wander around the more populated area of the festival. Fenris could hardly blame him.

So Fenris had gone to the main grounds, alone. The space looked much the same as it had the night before, though some of the elves now had blankets spread over the ground with trinkets laid across them. Fenris hadn’t been able to tell if they were for trade or display or worship until he’d walked past two elves in a heated bartering session over the price of seeds. Fenris couldn’t deny his interest in some of the stalls. There were the things he didn’t understand, like the ironbark figures carved into the shape of people with long, spindly arms outstretched, or the jewelry made with plants that would surely begin to rot within weeks. The stalls selling tools and weapons made of bone were much more compelling.

He’d eventually bought two things: a tent, so Merrill could have her own place to sleep, and secondly —

“What’s this?” Hawke takes the glass jar and stands up. He untwists the cap and holds it to his nose. “Spices?”

Fenris nods. The woman he’d traded with had said it was a mix of fern, spindleweed roots, and some breed of spicy peppers that grows deep in the Dales.

Hawke’s face melts into a soft, joyful grin. Fenris looks away, trying to hide the way that expression always reddens his face. “Thanks, Fen,” Hawke says as he squeezes Fenris’s hand. “Oh! You know what these would go great with? _Drakefish_.”

“Drakefish?”

“Ferelden salted drakefish.” Hawke’s voice goes distant, like he’s off eating it now in some faraway cabin.

“What?”

Hawke gasps. “It’s the best thing this side of the Veil. Have I not made that for you yet?”

“No.”

“Oh fuck, we need to fix that.” Hawke’s eyes shine with the light of the hundreds of ideas bouncing behind them. An excited smile spreads across his face and he begins nodding. He’s picked one. “Oh! And we could — oh yes, that’s gonna be perfect. It’s all coming together, Fenris. All thanks to you.”

“I don’t want to know,” Fenris says with a shake of his head. But he knows, Hawke knows, and the smile on his face knows that he can’t wait for whatever bizarre food Hawke is already stirring up in his head. If it’s anything like the other salted delicacies of Ferelden, it’s going to take an afternoon to chew it, but at least it will taste good.

Hawke is licking the spices off the pad of his thumb when footsteps approach from behind. Fenris presses himself to the tree and peers around the edge of it. It’s likely someone heading into the woods for hunting, relief, or a moment alone, just the same as him and Hawke. But he’s not letting anyone sneak up on him. Not here, and certainly not with this many people carrying staves like they’re some symbol of pride.

He glances to Hawke, who wears a tight smile as he tilts his head and blinks again and again. He should be hiding too; they can’t risk the wrong person catching a glance of rounded ears and a body far too tall to be elven. Fenris has seen the mobs this crowd is capable of, and while Merrill had been one story, he’s not going to be able to control himself if they turn that anger against Hawke. Fenris raises a finger to his lips and looks back around the tree to see —

Anders?

The mage stands in the shadows of the forest, out of reach of the sun. It’s him, undoubtedly, though his skin is now the color of ash and his eyes have lost everything but their whites. But, somehow, Fenris knows that those pupil-less eyes are fixed on him. His head pounds. Red webs cross his vision like oil spilled over water.

He blinks, and the mage is gone.

“How’re you feeling, Fen?” Hawke asks, and Fenris has to catch himself on the trunk of a tree to keep from falling. Hawke is grinning, even as concern crinkles the corners of his eyes.

Of all the people for his mind to conjure.

“Well, Hawke,” he says, steadying his breath. “I’d rather sleep in the sewers of Darktown than spend another week here.”

“I did that once, ya know.”

“Yes, Hawke, I do indeed know that. How could anyone forget? You nearly caused a riot in Hightown when you strolled back up there, smelling like death itself.”

Hawke winks. “I won that bet though.”

“Another heroic legend to add to your repertoire.” Fenris sighs and runs a shaking hand through his hair.

“You sure you’re fine?”

“I am.” Fenris focuses on his inhales, his pauses, his exhales. He’s in control here, despite what some illusions of dead mages might want him to believe. He turns the conversation away from anything having to do with Kirkwall. “I simply don’t like not knowing what _he’s_ planned. He needed me here for a reason. I’d rather know what that is before it comes to pass.”

“Yeah, I get that. I’m feeling a bit like a rat who knows it’s a trap, but still really wants that cheese, you know?”

Fenris supposes he does, though he’d describe the experience as kneeling in a sitting room, waiting for his master to — no, forget that. He likes Hawke’s metaphor better.

He’d stood outside the tent of artifacts until the people around had deemed him enough of a fixture to attempt to make small talk with him. Still, there had been no sign of the woman with the book.

Hawke asks, “Should we tell Merrill? Or Lavellan?”

“No. I don’t need either of them trying to stop me. Or using me to the find his cultists and killing them off too early.”

There’s a throb in his chest, a slow, grating pain like someone’s sharpening their sword on his sternum. It’s the feeling he gets whenever he thinks of what he’d do if their situations were reversed — what would he think of someone else making such a deal with the enemy? Would he care at all that any other path would doom them to a slow, pathetic death?

Probably not.

“See, that’s the thing that’s got me worried,” Hawke says. “Why would someone be after his agents in the first place?”

“Because they’re trying to destroy the world?”

“Sure. But the only people here who know that are …”

Hawke gives Fenris a dark look, one eyebrow raised. Oh.

The “danger” Solas asked him to watch for — perhaps it isn’t so unfamiliar after all. Of course Fenris had been the one Solas had called on; there aren’t many people out there who’d stand a chance against a blood mage or a Ben-Hassrath. And while Fenris could stomach fighting Merrill, he knows Hawke wouldn’t lift a finger against her.

“We’re not going to fight her,” Fenris says.

“I know. We wouldn’t stand a chance anyway.” Hawke chuckles, but it’s a sad sound. “Maybe if they know what’s up ahead of time — if they know why we’re doing this — we might be able to talk them out of attacking an agent. At least until you’ve gotten what you need.”

“But Merrill can’t keep a secret. And telling Lavellan is as good as telling the Qun. Whether he’d take the risk of helping me or not, I don’t intend to attract the attention of the Ben-Hassrath.”

“Yeah, alright. But, listen, if that’s what you want to do — lying to Merrill? Makes me feel like a piece of garbage, but it’s not hard. Lavellan won’t pick up on a lie as long as you don’t say too much.” Hawke opens his eyes to look directly into Fenris’s, a grave warning in them. “Watch out for Bull though. That man will see through anything.”

“Noted.”

Fenris doesn’t care what Solas intends — he’s here to prevent fights, not win them. He takes a breath to ease that throb in his chest. When all is said and done, he’ll do right by the world and kill the damn agent himself.

Hawke has too many thoughts on his face, and Fenris doesn’t need to hear them to know that none of them are good. Fenris hates that he’s the one who put them there. He doesn’t have the words to comfort Hawke or to assure him that everything will be fine, but he does remember that Hawke and Varric are best friends for a reason, and there’s one thing that can always cheer up Hawke.

_Talking shit_ , as Varric always put it.

“Has Lavellan always been such a prick?” Fenris asks.

He’s relieved when Hawke laughs from deep in his stomach. “Absolutely. Like a drakefish out of water.”

“Stop thinking about fish.” Fenris grins anyway. Hawke isn’t going to get his mind off these drakefish until he finds some.

Hawke folds his arms across his chest. The smile fades as he thinks through the question. “He was … he took control of things. A lotta things that no one else was willing to touch with a ten foot staff.” Hawke chews on the inside of his cheek. “He was a good leader, but maybe too eager to please. I tried to have a drink with him once. I really did. But he just wouldn’t get the stick out of his ass long enough to relax.” Hawke shrugs. “Maybe too proper, maybe too stuck up. Or just wildly uncomfortable.”

“People would say the same about me, Hawke.”

“Yeah, but you’ll tell people to fuck off if you’re sick of them,” Hawke says, clapping Fenris on the shoulder. Fenris rolls his eyes. He’d say that he patiently endured plenty of evenings with Merrill and Anders at the Hanged Man — and they were always the ones to start the fights, not him. “He’ll keep drinking with you even if he’s got no interest in what you’re saying. Well. Until he snaps and says he’s gonna cut out your tongue, I guess.”

It mostly lines up with Fenris’s own perceptions, but he’d refute the “good leader” bit. He trusts Hawke’s judgment of people, but he does wonder how much of that is clouded by the fact that Hawke wouldn’t want to believe he nearly died for a man who wasn’t worth that.

“I’ll admit, I’m not so keen on fighting him either,” Hawke says. “The man fights dirty. And don’t even get me started on that Qunari.”

Fenris imagines Hawke put in that position, forced to fight these people for the sake of Fenris, for the sake of some elven maniac who would like to see Hawke erased from this world. He can’t think of what he’d do if Hawke were hurt.

He presses a hand to his temple. Tension has become a truth of his body in the last few months, but this new headache is one more reason he’d like to leave this place and never look back.

Fenris startles when Hawke’s fingers brush his own.

“C’mon,” Hawke says. “I have an idea.”

* * *

Whatever plan Hawke has in mind apparently necessitates a stop by their campsite. Fenris has no idea what he could be fetching, considering there’s not much around other than their tent made of sticks and coats. Even that had been a debate — Fenris had been loath to leave anything unattended, while Hawke had insisted that no one was going to take their spare clothes.

Hawke digs around in the tent while Fenris waits, attempting to massage yet another headache out of his temples. He can’t help feeling like he should be back at the main grounds, keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. If he misses something while he’s off gallivanting with Hawke, there’s no telling what could —

Gray moves across the corner of his eye. Fenris’s hand flies to his sword.

Iron Bull waves as if he’s greeting an old friend. “Hey there. Got a minute?”

Fenris rattles his sword in its sheath, but Iron Bull plays dumb to the threat. “We’re busy.”

“Oh yeah? What’re you up to?”

They’re on their way to … Fenris’s head goes light. What _are_ they doing? Should he know? Hawke told him, right? How could he forget such a thing so quickly?

Hawke pokes his head out of the tent. “Going noodlin’.”

That … doesn’t clear anything up. So maybe he didn’t forget after all, and Hawke was just being his usual obtuse self.

“Right. So, while you were over there … ” Iron Bull loosely gestures in the direction of the ceremony grounds. “You happen to see anything, y’know … out of the ordinary?”

“Mostly you,” Hawke says.

“See, that’s the problem. It’s not so easy for someone like me to mingle around here. And Nebel is a bit … distracted.”

With all the innocence of a baby mabari, Hawke cocks his head to the side and blinks wide eyes. “That’s weird, did something happen between you two?”

It’s a bad joke. To his credit, Iron Bull lets it fly over his head. “Listen. It’s about what I pictured out there, isn’t it? Lots of mages? High tempers? More fear and distrust than you could swing a stick at?” Iron Bull waits, but Fenris refuses to nod. Whether he’s correct or not. “Come on. Don’t let Solas win this. That’s all I want to do here. I can pick out suspicious shit with a blindfold on and my hands behind my back — but only if I hear about it.”

“We don’t need your help,” Fenris says.

Iron Bull rubs at his neck. “We’d like to work together on this. So if you’ve heard anything, well ... “

Fenris thinks of the woman snooping through a book that amounted to a census of the entire Dalish population. He thinks of his own conversations with Solas, which reveal nothing but are still the only pieces of the puzzle he has to work with. But he imagines the disaster that would be attempting to defend any of the agents from Iron Bull, and he knows there’s nothing worth saying.

“No. Nothing.”

Fenris stands unbudging under Iron Bull’s stare. He trusts Hawke to keep his mouth shut as well, even as Hawke looks between the two of them with obvious discomfort.

Iron Bull opens his mouth to say something more, and Fenris comes to a sudden decision: he and Hawke do not have time for this. He grabs Hawke’s arm and turns to walk away with long, unwavering strides. Iron Bull makes the smart decision to not attempt to stop them.

“Hawke,” Fenris says, once they’ve passed out of the forest and made it back to the empty road.

“Hmm?”

“What is noodling?”

* * *

Fenris isn’t sure when the “noodling” started, if it even has.

The trail he’d followed Hawke down was a little-used snake of a path, doubling back over loose rocks and moist ground. They’d walked for hours, following the brim of the cliff until it became only a hill and then eventually flat ground. As they’d finally reached the shore of the lake nestled at the base of the cliffs, Fenris had wondered when Hawke possibly had time to explore this path. Or perhaps navigating an unfamiliar forest is yet another talent Hawke had picked up in the backwoods of Ferelden, and this all comes to him as naturally as breathing.

The lakes stretches all the way to the horizon and then some, its color impossibly green against the sapphire sky. Fenris splashes water on his face and revels in the chill of it, only to look up and see a shirtless Hawke already diving in.

“If all you wanted was to swim, there was a stream up by camp,” Fenris says, sliding out of his shirt as well.

Hawke ignores him. Fenris takes the hand he offers and allows himself to be pulled into the lake that pushes up against the rocky cliffs. He treads water at the edge of it, cool and refreshing against his chest.

“Hold this, and be ready,” Hawke says, and then hands Fenris a net.

Since when did Hawke carry this around? And, more importantly — “Ready for what?”

“You’ll see,” Hawke says with waggling eyebrows. Fenris knows that look can only mean trouble.

He doesn’t know what Hawke intends as he swirls his hands below the water, brushing against the rocks like he’s searching for something. But he catches himself smiling as Hawke wades around in the muck, the sun beating down on his freckled back. Mud splashes up and paints his face, yet Hawke looks more determined and in his element than ever.

Fenris doesn’t mind the dirt or the slimy things that cling to his legs under the water. Not if he gets to follow Hawke around and see him like this, laughing and wiping off his forehead with sweating arms. Hawke doesn’t care how he looks or how the world sees him. He’s fun, improper, and unlike any man Fenris ever met in Tevinter.

“Oh! I’ve got one!” Hawke yells, arms plunged down in opaque brown water that reaches his shoulder. “Shit, get over here! It’s biting!”

_Biting?_ Fenris lunges forward, scared that Hawke is going to be the second man around here to lose an arm. Just as he gets a grip on Hawke’s bicep and prepares to pull back, Hawke hurls his hand out of the water with an explosive splash. Mud lands on Fenris’s tongue, gritty and rotten-tasting, and he can’t help but cough. He forces his eyes open and looks up to see Hawke’s forearm engulfed by something huge, beige, and thrashing about.

Droplets rain down around them as Hawke howls with laughter. Fenris tries to shield his eyes with his palm, but Hawke barely has enough control over this thing to keep it raised in the air.

“What _is_ that?” Fenris calls out over the sounds of water being slapped about.

“Get the net!” Hawke bellows.

“That is _not_ an answer,” Fenris yells, but he holds it open anyway.

With the full force of his body, Hawke slams his arm down into the net, bringing the strange creature with him. The crash throws Fenris’s body back along with the flailing monster that’s determined to escape its trappings. Fenris tries to hold the net shut and his eyes open, but the dirt stings too much for him to do both. He shuts his eyes and holds his arms tight to his chest, even as something huge and wretched struggles against him.

Then there’s a hand on his wrist, pulling him back against the strength of the rippling waves. “Shit, shit, shit,” Hawke grumbles. “Let go of me, you fucker.”

A gasp leaves him at the same time Fenris opens his eyes. He’s forgotten — Hawke’s arm is trapped in the net, and Fenris is the one trapping it there. He starts to open it, only for Hawke to yelp, “Wait! Keep it shut, I’ve got this.”

Fenris does. He supposes he’s always known that Hawke is some sort of madman.

He looks down just as Hawke manages to extract his hand from the creature’s mouth. Fenris snaps the net closed, barely able to maintain his grasp as this thing throws itself against its confines.

He’s hesitant to look too close at something that almost ate Hawke’s arm, but when he does, he sees …

A _fish_?

A fish.

A giant, whiskered drakefish, staring up at him with a gaping mouth.

“What?”

He can’t find anything else to say.

Hawke shakes out his arm that’s covered in raised red scrapes from the fish’s jaw. He looks as proud as he did when they killed that dragon, if not more so. Fenris stares at Hawke, who is a decidedly more baffling creature than the fish that’s nearly the size of his torso. Hawke grins and grabs the net from him, raising it high like a trophy.

“Look at that. Now _that’s_ a big one.”

“Maker’s breath, Hawke,” Fenris manages to say.

“Think of all the fish jerky we can make.” With a grunt, Hawke heaves the net, fish and all, over the edge of the water. It flops about on solid ground.

“Impressed?” Hawke asks, beaming. His eyes shine nearly golden in the sunlight as he stretches his arms wide.

“Impressed and confused are similar emotions, I suppose.”

Hawke laughs. “Oh, Merrill will love this. She looked like she could use some fish this morning.”

No one but Hawke could think of fish as the solution to all of life’s problems. No one but Hawke would think to shove his hand down a fish’s throat to catch it instead of using a rod or a harpoon or _anything but his own arm_.

With a soft smile, Fenris reaches up to Hawke’s forehead to brush his soaked hair back over his head. Hawke lets him, still flushed from exertion and pride.

Fenris stays in the water as Hawke climbs out to wrangle the fish down. With the skill of someone who’s been doing this since childhood, Hawke manages to thread a cord through the fish’s mouth and tie up the edges of the net with the other end. He hadn’t even noticed the cord around Hawke’s waist earlier, having had no clue until this moment what misadventure Hawke was dragging him into.

A chill runs through his arms as he watches — the spring brings cold currents with it, he supposes, even as it roots itself in his bones. He focuses on Hawke, who manages to look so content, so handsome, even as he’s wrestling a fish to the ground.

The hair on the back of Fenris’s head rises. He feels the urge to spin around, to survey the area for watchful eyes and listening ears.

_They’re in danger._

They’re not. There’s no reason to believe there’d be anything out of the ordinary down here.

_He needs to be ready for a fight._

He needs to stay in the water, relax, and enjoy the damn view.

Hawke laughs and asks Fenris a question, but he can’t think about anything but the unease that pounds through his head. The urge wins. Fenris whips his head around and finds his eyes drawn to a cave in the side of the cliff, far enough away that all that he can see is the mouth of it that opens into a pitch black void.

Except for the two shining eyes that watch him, stark white against the darkness.

“Hawke,” Fenris whispers, pulling himself to the edge of the water and pointedly shifting his gaze to the cave. “There’s something over there.”

There’s a moment where Hawke looks startled, but then he follows Fenris’s line of sight and the alarm on his face fades away. It shouldn’t do that. Hawke needs to be ready, too — why isn’t he concerned?

“I don’t think there is, Fen.”

“No, over — “

Hawke cups a hand on Fenris’s shoulder and rubs his thumb over his collarbones. “I know you’re … you’ve been a little on edge lately.”

“I’m not being paranoid.”

“Point out exactly what you’re seeing.”

When Fenris looks back, the eyes are gone. It’s only a cave, hollow and dark. Is it worth checking? They may still be there; they may noticed Fenris’s gaze on them and ducked back into hiding. But is it worth making Hawke leave behind his prize to rot while they go search? Is it worth ruining this little bit of fun Hawke managed to carve out for him?

Is it worth it, when he may only have a precious few months yet?

Fenris turns his eyes down to the surface of the water. “Never-mind.”

As graceful as the fish, Hawke slips back down into the lake. Fenris holds tight to the rocky edge so that Hawke’s waves don’t sweep him away. “Just a little longer, alright?” Hawke says. “And then you won’t have to deal with it any more.”

Hawke’s smile shows just enough teeth. His eyebrows stay neutral and relaxed, without a single crease between them. Anyone but Fenris would surely be fooled.

“You don’t believe that,” Fenris says.

Hawke doesn’t falter. Fenris hadn’t expected him to. Fenris has walked in on Hawke plenty of times before, smiling and swearing up the walls that all is well, even as he hides Leandra’s locket behind his back.

Hawke says, “If Solas can bring down the Veil, he can fix this.”

“And what if he doesn’t follow through? What if no one else here knows a way out?” Fenris’s anger tastes bitter on his tongue, but he tries to keep it out of his voice. The world is what’s been cruel, not Hawke. “And why would they? It’s not as if there’s any other elves wandering around with this damn poison in their blood.”

The water rocks as Hawke paddles forward until he’s close enough to rest a hand over Fenris’s own. Fenris locks his gaze onto Hawke’s fingers, where dirt has gathered under each nail. There’s rage in his head but fear in his chest, and he doesn’t trust his eyes not to betray that.

“Then I’ll spend the rest of my life searching for a cure. I’m not stopping until you’re alright, Fenris. We’re going to fix this, together.”

_You don’t have time_ , Fenris’s mind screams. But he can’t say that. If Hawke knew this was their final chance, they wouldn’t be down here in the water. Hawke would have recruited an army to protect Solas’s agents, never shutting more than one eye at a time.

Hawke turns to look out over the lake. It’s as if he’s watching a ship pass by, but there’s nothing on the water but rocks and rotting logs. When Hawke speaks again, it’s so quiet that Fenris isn’t sure he’s even supposed to hear it. “I’m not going to lose you.”

“That’s not your choice to make.”

“What?” Hawke’s brow furrows as he spins to face Fenris, as if he’s misheard.

Fenris looks straight into his bewildered eyes, feeling more resolute than he has in days. “No, Hawke. Somehow, impossibly, I finally enjoy my life.” He thinks on everything he has — Hawke. Warm food. A bed to return to. A chance to make things better for people with no one to fight for them. “I’m not going to waste whatever amount of time I have left running around hopelessly looking for some cure.”

Hawke goes quiet. Fenris hates that; he never wants to be the reason Hawke’s jokes and laughs go silent. But it needed to be said.

Hawke’s scowl betrays his irritation. “You can’t ask me to sit on my hands and do nothing.”

“I’m not. I’m asking that for the life I have remaining, you allow me to enjoy it with you.”

“I won’t lose anybody else.”

“Hawke,” he says, soft and low, but Hawke doesn’t look up.

If Hawke runs off on his own — _again_ — to go on some futile search, Fenris may as well commit himself to that templar’s hospice. Hawke will return empty-handed and apologetic to a body that likely will have died months before.

Fenris can’t let that happen. But he doesn’t know the words to make Hawke stay.

So instead, Fenris pulls himself close to Hawke and wraps his arms around his neck. The skin of Hawke’s shoulder is warm against his ear as Fenris rests his head on his shoulder. There’s a tension in Hawke’s muscles — maybe from trying to keep them both above water, maybe from his uncertainty of where to lay his arms. Fenris doubts Hawke will ever not be taken aback by these rare moments where Fenris presses himself against him.

A heavy breath into his neck, and Hawke relaxes. With one hand tightened around Fenris’s waist, the other grips the stone to keep them both from drifting away.

“Well,” Hawke says with a smile that grows too quickly to be real. “We’ll just kick some ass this week and not need to worry about it again, alright?”

Fenris nods. Hawke can believe anything he’d like, as long as it keeps him here. “Alright.”

The thoughts of glowing eyes and whispered melodies don’t leave him, not even with his face pressed into Hawke. But he shifts his focus to the push and pull of the waves, of Hawke’s breath moving through his chest. The warmth of Hawke’s skin and the chill of the water. The dread of returning to camp and the thrill he gets being here now, wrapped in Hawke’s arms, the sun on his skin.

He leans back and sees Hawke, dirt coating his skin, forehead shining with sweat, hair sticking out in wild directions. He looks gorgeous, like a man that’s crawled out of the woods straight into Fenris’s arms. Fenris leans up to press a kiss against his jaw, and then another, before crushing his lips into Hawke’s. There’s a laugh against his mouth.

“We should probably get the fish cooked up,” Hawke says, even as his hand’s grip against Fenris’s hip tightens.

“It can wait,” Fenris mutters as he runs his fingers down Hawke’s chest, letting them get tangled in his hair.

“Oh, you like me all dirty like this, do you? Fresh coat of mud getting you going?” Hawke teases, and Fenris growls back. Hawke knows it’s not far from the truth.

They don’t need to be back up there, not yet. They have time.

Fenris rolls his eyes before pressing his lips back against Hawke’s open mouth. “Stop talking and get your pants off,” he whispers, reaching down to help and grinning at the intoxicating moan he receives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noodling is real and it is _[wild](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SfPxzKAvMAQ)_ (warning for language and the level of gore you probably could expect in a fishing video).


	8. Chapter 8

“You should leave.”

The command is out of Nebel’s mouth before the tips of Bull’s horns are even visible. He’s had those three little words trembling on the edge of his tongue for what must be hours, and they come rushing out the second he sees a hint of gray.

He doesn’t know where Bull has come back from or how long he’s been gone. All he knows is that by the time he’d woken up, the sun already beating down on his hammock from the center of the sky, there’d once again been a bowl of soup and no sign of Bull. Bull struggles enough with any recipe more complicated than _kill creature, hold over fire until charred_ , so there’s no way he learned how to prepare traditional Dalish meals overnight. Nebel gives the soup a dirty look and tries not to worry about where it came from.

Bull enters their campsite with a mountain of firewood in his arms. He sets it down in a neat pile under an oak, slow and deliberate like an aravelwright executing the final cuts in a fickle hull. When he straightens, his eyebrows are raised high.

“Say that again?” Bull asks, but Nebel knows he heard. The ears of a Ben-Hassrath are nearly on par with those of a Dalish hunter.

“I’m not planning to tell them about the Evanuris. Merrill only agreed to let you go on that condition.” Nebel keeps his eyes only on his knees. He spent the better part of the night planning this speech and he won’t let any of Bull’s reactions drive him off-course now. “She’s tracking us both. But if you leave now, you might be able to get far enough away that she can’t find you.”

“Going back on your word, huh?”

In the dozens of scenarios Nebel played out in his head, that response didn’t come up once. “Yes. I lied. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Yeah, alright. That’s fair.”

“I can’t make them go through that. But I can only stall Merrill for so long,” Nebel says. Bull looks at him with that same concern that Nebel has spent years growing comfortable accepting, and _shit_ , this is exactly what he wanted to avoid. Already off-course, already questioning his decision.

“Listen, Nebel, you’re great with a knife and all, and you can run like one of those halla I see prancing around, but … “ Bull sits across from him with a too-weary sigh. “You can’t take her on.”

“I know. I’ll figure it out.”

“Remember when you said to tell you if I thought you were fucking up?” Bull asks. “Yeah. You’re doing that.”

“That was different. Things were … “ Nebel groans. This is too hard to explain. There’s too much going on, and Bull’s obstinance isn’t making any of it easier. “You just need to get out of here, alright? She might be willing to spare me, but — ”

“I’m staying,” Bull says. “You make whatever choice you want. I’ll fight off Merrill if I’ve got to.”

Nebel slides his palm down to cover his eyes. Bull complicates things. Will he still be able to keep his silence, knowing that it may mean Merrill chasing after Bull? Will the Arlathvhen’s welcome of a Qunari run dry and end with the Dalish coming for him as well?

Whatever. Bull knows the risks. “Fine,” Nebel mutters. “That’s your choice too, then.”

The silence of an agreement neither side is happy with falls over them, until Bull breaks it in the worst possible way.

“So, hey. You got a few minutes to talk?” Bull asks it like a teenager approaching a Keeper with an embarrassing question. “I know I’m crap at this whole feelings thing, but even I know that last time didn’t go too good.”

No, all Nebel needs to focus on now is what he actually came here to do: protecting this festival and the people in it. Bull is beyond _crap_ at dealing with emotions if he thinks Nebel will go from wanting him to leave to wanting to talk about their issues in the span of a minute.

“Why?” Nebel asks.

“Huh?”

“Why talk now? What do you gain from that?”

Bull folds his arms over his chest. “Why do I need to gain something from it?”

“Because clearly it wasn’t worthwhile to say anything until now.” Nebel mirrors Bull’s defensive stance. He’s not going to be manipulated again. “So what is it, then? A chance to uphold your good guy reputation? A weight off your conscience? A chance to win back your sex toy?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Bull’s eye widens like he’s been slapped. “You really think I’d ever think like that?”

“I clearly have no idea how you actually think. I _thought_ you respected me.”

“I _do_ respect you. I wouldn’t be with you if I didn’t.”

“So why not say anything?”

“Because I don’t see the point in digging up shit just for the sake of fighting about it,” Bull says, voice rising. “Unity brings peace. Unity sorts through the chaos. That’s what I know.”

“That’s not how relationships work,” Nebel snaps.

“I told you. I didn’t do relationships before this.”

“Well, do you even _want_ one now?”

When the Dreadnaught had come, Bull had looked like a child, withdrawn into himself and too lost to make that choice. When Corypheus’s demon had sliced Bull’s back apart with searing claws, Bull’s face had contorted like pain was the only emotion he’d ever know again. And when Bull had stared down at Nebel with his axe lifted and wobbling, trying to find the best angle to slice off the remains of a crumbling arm, he’d had the expression of a man bargaining with the universe, begging to wake up from a dream.

The look on his face now is a twisted, horrific mix of them all.

“Yeah. Fuck, Nebel. Is that not obvious?” Bull turns his head away to look down at his hands. Even in the shadows of the trees, it’s clear they’ve gone pale from strain.

“Sorry,” Nebel mutters. “That wasn’t fair.”

“Don’t be. You can be as mad at me as you want.” Bull sticks out his thumb over his shoulder. “Borrow my axe, if you like.”

“I can’t even lift that thing,” Nebel jokes, but there’s no feeling behind it. He pinches his nose and looks for the words to sum up the energy in him. He settles on a frustrated: “This sucks.”

“Yeah. It does.”

But it didn’t always. It had been good. Good enough to deserve a better ending than this.

“I do want to talk.” Nebel nods, again and again, convincing himself that this is fine, even as his body wants to run from any chance of that conversation. The feeling becomes impossible to resist, so he stands and stretches. “Just … not right now.”

“You really don’t got a minute?”

“A _minute_?” Nebel laughs at the thought of anything being resolved between them in that time. He gathers his canteen and his knives, even as he feels the sear of Bull’s eye following him around. “As much as I’d like to only focus on my fucked-up love life, that’s not why I came here. I need to get an idea of the state of things out there, now that I can actually spare it a thought.”

“Let me know if you see any more of that soup. That was some good shit.”

Nebel eyes the bowl he’d tipped over with his foot out of petulant irritation. It had smelled good, at least. “I’ll see you later, Bull,” he says, lifting his hand in a half-hearted wave. He can’t decide if Bull muttering frustrated Qunlat phrases to himself at his campsite is a better or worse ending to this conversation than he’d expected.

* * *

Nebel follows the greenery into darkness. Beyond the western edge of the ceremony grounds, the trees grow closer together, their roots intertwining like they want nothing more to become a single living thing. The leaves form a canopy as thick as the one over his bed in Skyhold, blocking out all but the smallest splatters of light. Underneath, the plants shift from bright, vivid colors to deep, shining greens that look nearly blue in the shade.

He looks for riverweed: a sprawling bush with leaves like velvet that curl into hanging coils. Although it sounds like a plant that would thrive near water, he’s only ever found it near the bases of larger trees, taking shelter from the sunlight and thriving off rich soil. It’s named instead for the way it makes blood flow: free and quick like the rush of a river’s current. Useful for those complaining of heart pain, less so for anyone at constant risk of being impaled by an ancient magister. So it’s been a while since he’s needed it.

He has no idea if it will dilute Merrill’s blood in him. He figures it’s worth a shot.

He comes to the darkest, wettest area of the forest and finds the first of hopefully many of the shrub. With his attention focused on trimming the leaves with enough care so as to not kill the rest of the plant, he nearly drop his knife when he hears his name behind him.

As it turned out, he hadn’t been the only one to follow the path of greenery. Three elves were already there, carrying a collection of tweed bags already half-filled with herbs, offering warm greetings and a fresh canteen of water. He’s the only one to need no introduction.

He helps gather embrium, ferns, anything that could be thrown into a pot to boost strength, energy, protect from sickness, or just improve the flavor of a bland soup. That had been one of the many shocks in his first weeks in Haven; he’d assumed that the reason the humans weren’t infusing their food with such vital herbs was a short supply of them in the desolate winter mountains. But after he’d come back from the Hinterlands, carrying bundles of them to the kitchens, they’d given him nothing but odd stares and directions to the apothecary tent.

The other elves scatter around, close enough to chat but with enough space to let each other work. He listens to them speak of their clans’ travels, their roles in the clan, the histories they’ve found in the last ten years. He stays quiet, letting their voices blend with the drops of water falling from leaves and the snapping of stems into a peaceful tune.

“A few years ago, we found this knife,” the eldest of them says, words rushing out in excited waves. “And it was stuck in this tree, and the tree had grown around it, just kept right on like it wasn’t there, and it was carved with old writing, symbols none of us knew — we brought it, I believe. It’s with the other artifacts, if you want to see, and you really should, it’s incredible — the ironbark was still sharp, even after all these years.“

Nebel has little interest in that tent. The Lavellan clan had built up their own collection over the years: a carved figurine, a stone that lit up in the same cycles of the moon, a shredded corner of a tapestry. He can only assume that they also were destroyed by the soldiers that purged Wycome of any trace of elves.

He hastily flips open his notebook to the page on gloamshrooms and makes note of the spiraling growth pattern on the tree in front of him. About six inches between each cap, growing halfway up the tree — _focus_. He doesn’t need to think of Wycome, only how best to sketch the way that the tips of the fungus that have been muddled with purple streaks.

He looks up as a humming woman — _Marelwyn_ , he remembers, though her clan escapes him — kneels at the next tree over, running her palm over its trunk like she’s greeting a halla. She looks to be a decade or so younger than him; he’d put her at twenty-two, at most. She wears the fringed snoufleur tunics common in the clans of the Frostbacks and the vallaslin of Sylaise — just as black and curly as the hair that falls around her face.

With a thin knife and a bowl held under it, she begins to scrape shavings of bark away, releasing the sweet scent of fresh thornwillow into the air. It smells like the bread the Hearthmaster would make, her hands holding a large, black circle of a pan over the fire as the sweet dough turned the golden brown of old grass under a setting sun. Nebel remembers sitting on a lap, leaning forward as if to grab the breads straight out of the pan, and strong arms holding him back from the drops of oil that flew like sparks off a log —

“Isn’t it strange how early the leaves regrow here?”

Nebel blinks and remembers where he is. There’s a small bag on the ground. He’s holding riverweed. He has been for several minutes, actually, unaware until now that his hand had gone still. Marelwyn looks at him, expecting an answer to her question, which was …

“Ah. Yeah,” he says. “I’ve heard it has to do with the amount of clay deposits in the area. Good for the soil.”

“Oh, don’t get me started on the loam here. I’m definitely snagging some to bring back home.” She brings the bowl of thornwillow to her nose and takes a deep, appreciative whiff. “It’s refreshing. We’ll be lucky to catch even a glimpse of green in the Emprise for another two months.”

He nods, brushing off a clump of soil from the riverweed’s leaves. The dirt is dark and rich with autumn’s leaves left to rot under winter’s snow. It’s been a while since he’s grown anything new — maybe he should grab a bag of it too. Then again, the Chargers travel too much for him to carry much more than a pot of elfroot around.

“How’s the walking bottomless pit doing?” Marelwyn asks.

It takes him a second, and then — _Shit_. Nebel had hoped Bull wouldn’t be spotted so soon. “Er — “

Marelwyn laughs at his cringing face. “He may eat like his namesake, but at least he’s no freeloader.”

“He’s … what?”

“He’s been helpful, honestly. The Second in my clan saw him trying to sneak around and hunt last night. _Trying,_ that is. I’m surprised his head is attached with how often he was bumping those horns into the trees.” Her knife taps the tree in time with a wink. “But our clan is a social one. We’d heard plenty of the one-eyed Qunari _involved_ with the Inquisition.” She laughs even louder than before as Nebel looks away. He wonders if there’s a corner of Thedas that hasn’t heard the details of his love life. “So she gave him food. And he came back later with firewood, a bit of meat, that sort of thing. This morning, actually, we needed some things from the town, and as brilliant an idea it would be to head there myself, I do enjoy having all my organs in-tact.” She turns the knife in on herself and sticks out her tongue as she mimes slicing down her ribs. “You get it. But we didn’t even need to ask — he’d gone and fetched it for us within the hour.”

“Oh.”

She smiles at him, but Nebel doesn’t have the heart to return it. He hadn’t known. He’d assumed the worst — that Bull had stolen that food, that Bull had spent the morning doing as little as he had himself. But this is Bull, after all. Always eager to help, never giving a shit about claiming credit.

Marelwyn keeps the sly smile on her face even as she tilts her head. “A bit gloomy though, isn’t he?”

Nebel doesn’t respond. The sound of a knife against bark resumes.

The eldest elf approaches, coming to shave off the gloamshrooms. Nebel shoves the riverweed into his own pocket and a sprig of embrium into one of the collection bags.

“Nebel,” the newcomer greets. Nebel finds it strange to hear his given name so often here. “You’ve done a fair amount of traveling, haven’t you? Did you encounter anything of our history?”

_A_ _fair amount_ may be the worst understatement he’s ever heard. Marelwyn turns back to him, waiting with interest. The last elf pokes her head out from behind a tree as well, and the noises of knives and shovels go silent.

“I … a bit. Nothing too interesting.” But his words aren’t enough to appease their expectant, hungry eyes. He sighs and tries to think of something. “Well, there’s … I learned of a ritual, once. An ancient one that was once used when entering a temple. It was — supposedly, from the texts — both a lock, and a way of honoring the space.”

He doesn’t tell them that he’d been the one to complete the ritual himself, stepping over each stone with his breath held, waiting for those lights to flicker to life. Bull had stood on the edge with arms crossed, annoyed that they weren’t just barreling through the temple, but Nebel wasn’t going to defile that place any more than it already had been. And how often did an elf have a chance to experience this? He doesn’t tell them that it had ended with him personally connected to Mythal and a hundred voices in his head, whispering more history than one mind could hold.

He wonders if it’s lying to leave that out.

The eldest elf looks at him like he’s revealed the path to the Eternal City itself. “Can you tell us more? Where was this text? Was there anything else in it?”

He can’t. He tightens the strings around the bags they’d lent him and organizes them into a hurried pile as he speaks. “Forgive me, I have somewhere to be.”

The eldest elf frowns, so disheartened that it almost stops Nebel in his tracks. Maybe if he could talk about the library a bit, frame it as a painting he’d found or something —

No. He’s already said too much. He gathers the rest of his things and hopes that the riverweed he’s found will be enough. “Thank you,” he says. “For … “

He struggles to find the words, not wanting to say too much in front of the others. But Marelwyn just begins chuckling to herself. “For not striking down your friend at first sight?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

Her voice drops as the others return to their work. “I sound like an elder, I know, but really: times are changing. You don’t need to hide as much as you think.” She reaches into the bag slung over her shoulder and digs through it, before pulling something out in her wrapped fist. “Here. Take this.”

He holds out his palm, and she drops something with the texture of a wet shell coated in sand into his hand. When he realizes what it is, he can’t stop the grin from breaking out on his face. There’s three small strips of candied fruit, each a different shade of orange. It’s not an easy food to make; she must have worked to prepare these long ahead of the Arlathvhen.

“Thank you,” he whispers as thoughts of the tart sweets already make his mouth water. She passes him a thin sheet of parchment to wrap them, and he tucks the package into his pocket.

“Dareth shiral,” they say at the same time. She laughs.

He heads in the direction where the sun shines through the canopy more freely. The walk should give his eyes a chance to readjust, but he only makes it a minute before he needs to come to a stop.

Merrill stands in his path. He gets the feeling she didn’t need to follow him to know his location.

“Oh. Hi,” he says, running his fingers over the riverweed in his pocket. He hopes it works fast, if at all.

“Hello. What were you all talking about?” She sounds more curious than angry, which is a pleasant change. He hadn’t realized she’d been in the area, or at least close enough to see him with the others.

“Just a bit of the Inquisition. That sort of thing. Nothing much.”

“I see. Will you be telling them tonight?”

And there it is, the question he’d been expecting. He responds, just as stilted as her, “Not yet, no.”

She exhales a short breath through her nose. She’s clearly not happy about it, but by the terms of her own agreement, he still has until tomorrow tonight.

“I told some people already,” she says.

He tries not to let the frustration, the fear, the fluttering in his chest at what those poor elves must be going through show on his face. He can only hope those few don’t take it upon themselves to spread the word. That’s not a wildfire he can control. “How did they take it?”

“They didn’t believe me. Well, one of them did, maybe. She looked quite upset. But not upset like the others.” She pauses, her fingers drumming against her staff. “They had some strong words to say about lies.”

“And you want me to face that instead?”

“But if it’s you, they’ll listen.”

Her face falls into a downtrodden frown, and he hates what that does to him. He wants to stop her; she’s using him as a pawn in her terrible plans; she’s probably still considering killing Bull in burst of flame — but he can’t help but feel like he needs to do _something_. She lost her clan too, in her own way. And while there’s probably plenty of people here who want his head on a stake, he doesn’t feel the need to hide away in the woods and listen in on conversations he can never hope to participate in.

“Here,” he says. “Take these.” He pulls out the parchment, the sweet scent tugging at his willpower as he holds it out to her.

She unfolds the bundle, and she gasps as she looks down at the bright colors with a new light in her eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Too sweet for me,” he lies.

“Thank you,” she says. “It’s been so long.”

The smile on her face is small, and he knows that in minutes she’ll be cross with him again, but it still does wonders to fill the hollow feeling in his chest.

* * *

“Walk with me?”

Nebel doesn’t offer any other greeting. He doesn’t know how to do this; all he knows is that he can’t possibly stay still during it. He imagines sitting across from Bull, held under that all-knowing eye, and he feels like an insect trapped under glass. It’s strange. Bull has had him strung up from the ceiling, exposed everywhere but his eyes, and he’s still never felt this vulnerable in front of him.

Bull stands without question. “You got it.”

Nebel leads them through the woods, no destination in mind, only keeping track in his head of how to best avoid the ceremony space and the crowds that come with it. They veer from any recognizable paths, but Nebel would rather deal with uneven footing than the people eager for mid-afternoon tea and mingling.

“How’s your day?” Bull asks after manhandling his way through a thicket of firethorns, knocking clumps of red berries into the dirt.

“Fine,” Nebel says. “No sign of Solas.”

“Same here.”

Well, this strained, awkward tension is a new experience. From the first day they’d met, Bull had never resisted needling him or making jokes that others wouldn’t dare say in the presence of a _Herald_. Conversation had always flowed like wine between them, leaving Nebel feeling buzzed and alive.

“Maybe he won’t bother, after all,” Nebel says. “Not like he cared much for the Dalish in the first place.”

“Or he’s here, laughing his ass off at us.”

“Is Solas capable of laughing?”

Bull snorts. The easygoing sound is like swig of water in the Hissing Wastes, and while it might not be wine, Nebel still finds himself relaxed enough to attempt to speak.

“So,” he says. “I heard you’ve been helping out around here.”

“Oh. Yeah. Just trying to keep busy.” Nebel can’t pin down why he knows Bull has more to say, but the part of him that Bull’s mannerisms have sunken into tells him to stay quiet despite the long silence. Finally, Bull says, “I stopped by to have a chat with Merrill earlier too.”

“A chat?”

“An apology,” he corrects. “Decided it was better to do one on one, you know? Didn’t want it to feel put on for anyone.”

“Ah. Can I ask — “ He clenches his eyes shut. No. He can ask whatever he wants. Bull owes him that. “What did you tell her?”

“ _Sorry_ , mostly. Shouldn’t have just followed orders. Should have told her when it was safe again.”

“And?”

“She doesn’t forgive me. Didn’t make any difference, really. She still thinks I’m with the Qun, just wiping more dirt over my tracks.” Nebel rolls his eyes. Too many people can’t get past the idea of a horned man living independently. “But the good news is: she’s not gonna kill me unless I give her another reason to. So … better not do that.”

That’s a relief, but there’s still a chance that Nebel’s own refusal to follow her orders will count as reason enough. She may just use it as an excuse to change her mind. Nebel doubts that he could convince Bull to take riverweed as well, even if it would aid his escape. The man lives his life like he’s at risk of bleeding out at any moment.

“Alright,” Nebel says, trying to center his focus again. His mind is determined to think about anything other than this conversation. “Do you feel better?”

“Fuck no. But it had to happen, either way. And let me do the same for you.” Bull stops walking, turning instead to face Nebel. Without thinking, Nebel stops, his feet and heart forgetting how to function. He looks up into Bull’s eye, full of pain and remorse and all the emotions Nebel so longs to see. “I’m sorry, Nebel. I’m sorry for all of this.”

If it were even days ago, Nebel would wrap his arm around him, stand on his toes to press lips to Bull’s chin, and whisper how proud he is. Showing this level of feeling — so open, so vulnerable — has been a long journey for Bull. How many times has Nebel prodded at him, digging for an answer beyond the _I’m fine_ ’s and _Don’t worry about me_ ’s? And here he is, looking like he just took a sword to the gut, and Nebel doesn’t believe it.

“I don’t think you even know what you’re apologizing for,” Nebel says.

“Tell me, then.”

The words are there. The anger and grief were his only company last night, and he’d spent hours under the stars, digging through the raw emotion until he found its deeply buried roots. He wants to run in one of the many ways he always has. He could let his feet carry him away to some hidden place, or maybe he could put all of this aside, tell Bull there’s nothing to talk about, and let the pain grow into something too large to purge.

He looks up at Bull, framed by mist and trees that bring out the hues of twilight in his eyes and skin, and he remembers so many moments just like this — when they’d slip away from camp for a few private minutes with each other, when they’d meet on the battlements to laugh at the lights and ruckus below.

If he’s going to end this, it deserves a proper burial.

“You used me,” Nebel says, a whisper that he knows won’t stay quiet long. “I worked so hard. I spent all that time trying to build any amount of trust in that mess of an organization. All because I wanted to protect my people. And I wasn’t even able to, in the end.” He presses his hand to his throat, begging it not to close up, praying that he can maintain composure. “There were so many things I wanted to do, so many necks I wanted to wring, but I needed to stay in power. I couldn’t have someone else stepping in, setting even more fires in the woods.”

“These people aren’t worse off because of you.”

“But they aren’t better off. And knowing you were out there, throwing around that small bit of power I’d built up all in the name of keeping Merrill quiet — “

“I’m sorry,” Bull says, again, and somehow the lessened emotion this time makes it feel more real. “I want to make up for it.”

“I don’t think this is something you can fix, Bull.” The mirror can’t be fetched, and as for Nebel’s trust — well, he’s never seen a mage successfully heal anything that’s already been sliced in two.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“That’s _your_ job to figure out.” Anger spreads through Nebel like a fungus, the same way it would when his advisors would come to him with political messes, expecting a perfect solution for some issue they should’ve been well-equipped to handle. “Here I am, spending all day surrounded by the plight of my people, and then I need to come back and think about how _you_ added to that? This isn’t a problem I can solve for you.”

Bull is silent too long. Nebel glares at him, waiting for _anything_ , some reaction other than his unsettled expression and fidgeting fingers.

“So … is this it?” Bull finally says, looking down at the space between them. “You wanna call it quits now?”

Yes. _No_. The question saps the rage out of him, leaving him feeling like an empty, exhausted shell.

_Don’t run from the problem now, da’len. You’ve done so well this far,_ comes a thought in a voice that sounds an awful lot like Keeper Deshanna’s. But that’s overly generous. One look at Bull and the lines around her eyes would be crinkling just as they always did before yet another blood vessel popped.

No, far more likely would be: _Da’len, why even consider staying with this man? Think of your people._

“I don’t know, Bull,” he says at the end of a long sigh. “I don’t want to leave it like this.”

“You’re looking for closure before you go.”

“Closure that doesn’t come in the form of a missing body part, yeah.” The joke leaves him chuckling darkly at himself. He cuts it off when he sees how uncomfortable Bull looks — probably one too many memories there of severing flesh to find any humor in it. “Can you give me that?”

“It’s — urgh.” Bull groans and stretches a hand up to his neck. “It’s less complicated when it’s fake, you know? Lying is easy. _This_ shit is hard.”

“And it would be easier for me to walk away and not give you a chance.”

“I don’t wanna fuck this up any worse than I have,” Bull says.

“Well, saying nothing is one sure-fire way to do that.”

Bull’s hesitation is suffocating. Bull’s the sort to hold a winning hand up his sleeve and flash a laughable fake one to spark some cheer at the table. It’s unnatural that Bull can’t find a single thing to say, not even a joke.

Nebel starts walking again, if just to hear the crunch of twigs and seeds beneath his feet. It’s better than the silence. Bull’s footsteps fall in next to him, one for his every two.

“Tell me this,” Nebel says. If his words have led to this standstill, maybe Bull’s own will resonate deeper. “After Rainier confessed, you asked if he felt better. You preached so much about accepting the consequences, facing the truth — that by getting the weight off his chest, he could finally know who he was.”

Bull shrugs like there’s not a shred of hypocrisy there. “I know who I am. And I’m not the one who did this.”

“What do you even mean by that?”

Bull tucks his hands deep into his pockets, and then there’s a metallic shifting sound every few seconds. He’s fiddling with the lid of his flask, twisting it back and forth, never quite opening it. Bull’s got to be uncomfortable if he’s not restraining his fidgeting.

“Do you know what re-education entails?” Bull eventually asks. Nebel shakes his head. “It’s … rough, for some people. But there are good parts about it.”

Sure. A talented re-educator probably leaves all their victims with that impression.

“You learn who you are,” Bull starts. “That you aren’t what you’ve done in the past. Doesn’t matter where you come from or what shit you’ve pulled. All that matters is how you can serve the Qun. It’s a rebirth, sort of.” Bull acts like he’s just stated that they end each session with a cup of tea and not made some outrageous claim. Nebel makes sure that Bull sees his raised eyebrow. He’s unaffected. “Anyways. It’d be a pain to have to re-do that every time a mission gives you the creeps. So they teach you how to handle yourself, if that’s what you need. You know. Lock up the bad shit. Stop thinking about it. Keep on keeping on.”

“Isn’t that unhealthy?”

“Better that than qamek.” Well. He has a point there. Bull continues, “So when I left, that’s what I did. Took everything of Hissrad’s and boxed it away. Rebirth, part two.”

“That’s bullshit,” Nebel says. “You lost your people, and yeah, I know that’s hard, but you weren’t really reborn. You can’t just use that to shrug off your part in all that.”

“We all gotta survive somehow. You got your tools, I’ve got mine.”

“Mine don’t end with you needing to stop an invasion while your arm is falling off.”

As easy as it would be to throw that back in Nebel’s face, Bull just cringes and says, “Yeah. Bad comparison. Sorry.”

Nebel runs back through the conversation and looks for answers in it. There’s not enough. Granted, he doesn’t expect any answers to come from this that could excuse the lies; he just wants to understand. So he asks, “You’re saying you didn’t bring this up because … you blocked it out?”

“Sort of. Of course it occurred to me that you’d wanna know about this. But it doesn’t hang over me, not like your worries.”

Nebel would be offended if he didn’t know it was true. Still, _occurred_ isn’t good enough. Something like this should have hung over him with a shadow too wide to escape. “What were you afraid of happening if you confessed? That I’d leave you?”

“Nah. You can leave, if you want. Dead is another story.” Bull’s eye slips shut. As he takes a cycle of slow, almost imperceptible breaths, his old and well-worn neutral expression slips over his face. “No. This was about me. It’s all or nothing. I leave all that behind, or I’m going to lose it. And who knows who I’d take down along the way?”

“You couldn’t even look back at your past enough to tell me this? Even if you’d lied and said it wasn’t you who stole it, from a purely strategic view — you should have warned me. If we’d known we’d be running through the Crossroads during the Council, fighting off Saarebas, we could have prepared. Things could have been different.”

“If I told you everything I’d done under the Qun, we’d be dead by the time I finished,” Bull says, casual even as Nebel’s mind begins to wonder just what else that list contains. “I didn’t know what they were doing with the eluvians. The Ariqun didn’t give me much insight into the overall _plan_ for the things I did — just the orders. There was no way to tell what was going to come up again later. Most of it never did.”

Bull may act like he was just a lowly spy, but Nebel knows better. The man can draw connections between a speck of dust on a pen and the poison that killed a man. But, fine. Bull can play dumb if he wants.

Nebel says, “And what about after the palace? You knew. You knew exactly what you’d done.”

“Yeah. I did.” They pass under a tree with branches drooping with the weight of a cluster of seed cones. Bull plucks one out of the air and begins tossing it up and down like a bag toy. “Believe me, after all that shit? Those memories were rattling at their cages.”

Not rattling enough, apparently. “If we hadn’t run into her. If she hadn’t come after you — would you ever have told me?”

Bull’s cheek shifts as his tongue presses against it, as if the question has a taste he can’t discern. “I would have,” he says. “Eventually.”

That’s as good as never to Nebel. He crosses his arm across his chest, incredulous and irritated with the non-answer. “When? Why _eventually_?”

“I wanted to wait until you were … prepared.” Bull sets his jaw, but once again, Nebel knows to wait. There’s something he’s not saying. “Mentally,” Bull finally tacks on.

“What do you mean?”

Bull squeezes the cone until its spiky edges crumble. He looks around the woods, as if something will jump out to save him from this conversation. When he speaks, he keeps his eye fixed on a random point above Nebel’s head. “Well, you know. Since the Winter Palace, since losing your arm, you’ve been — down. You’re a strong man. One of the strongest men I’ve ever known. But you’re … do you know what I’m sayin’?”

Perhaps he would, if Bull would stop looking for these winding paths around the subject. He shakes his head — yeah, he’s had some issues, but it’s not like he’s been completely inept, rooted to a bed and refusing to eat. Not since autumn, at least. “Bull, I lost everything,” he says, willing a steadiness into his voice. “My clan, my arm, my religion. I’m just — it’s a lot to deal with, but that’s no reason for you to hide things from me.”

“When Vasaad died, I — “ Bull stops himself, as he always does when his old friend comes up. “Well, there’s no re-educators around anymore. I don’t know what I’d do this time.”

Nebel doesn’t understand. All this confusion is driving him mad. He sighs, pinching his nose between his fingers and willing the irritation out of him before he snaps and demands a real answer in another way he’ll regret. He looks up, mouth already open, and sees — Anguish. Exhaustion. A plea.

_Oh_.

“You … You’re talking about — “ Nebel stops walking. He digs his fingers into his side, under where his other arm begins. Even through all that flesh, he feels his heart pounding desperately, as if it could somehow force time to match its rhythm as well. “Bull, it was _once_. And I didn’t … I changed my mind, immediately. I asked for help, it was just — “

“You scared the shit out of Krem,” Bull mutters.

“I know. I know, and I’m — I’m so sorry about that.” He doesn’t like to think back on that, the moment it had dawned on Krem exactly why he’d looked so green, why his pupils had begun to quiver; why Stitches had demanded he go find a bucket and a hair tie. “Everything just … it felt like too much. But I just had a bad moment. That’s all it was. It was a mistake, and it’s not going to happen again. I swore to you, back then.”

Bull has something to say, but this time he doesn’t let it out, no matter how much Nebel waits or how hard he digs nails into skin. _Please, speak,_ he chants in his head, a mantra to fill the silence and ward off the rest of his thoughts. _Creators, make him speak._

“Bull,” Nebel whispers, and Bull finally meets his eyes, which only makes it harder to spit out the words. “This wouldn’t have made me — you don’t need to worry about that.” He hopes his voice is firm enough that it can put an end to this. No more questions, no more reminders. “We don’t need to talk about it any more, okay? It’s done.”

“Hm,” Bull mumbles. He looks Nebel up and down like he always does when he’s looking for his signs of lies. Bull has coached him through all of his tells — he looks to the left, he picks at the skin around his nails, he turns his feet inward. He checks through them himself, but he doesn’t really need to. He’s telling the truth, no matter how much even speaking of it hurts.

“Please, say something,” Nebel begs, unable to live in this silence anymore. They need to move on. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Bull gives him one last scan, one last moment of petrifying quiet and agony that Nebel has to withstand, but he eventually has mercy. Like he’s easing his way out of a stupor, Bull presses a hand to his head and shakes it. “It’s idiotic.”

“Please.”

Bull looks around like his thoughts are an obnoxious fly circling his horns. Nebel wishes he could catch them or swat them away for him — anything to hurry this up. Finally, Bull straightens his back and stares down at Nebel with an intensity that commands his full focus.

“You want to know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking that I want you to hit me with a stick until I’m the color of a darkspawn’s asshole.” It’s crude, but in a familiar way. The glimpse of normalcy makes Nebel’s lips curl into a wry smile.

But he falters when Bull begins to speak again. His voice is gritty and slow and sounds just the same as it does when Bull gives him a series of instructions to follow in bed. “And then I want to carry you to that tent. I want you to lay on me and tell me you _forgive_ me and all of this bullshit can end. I want you to say it’s fine, we’re fine, and we’re going to leave this place together.”

Chills run down Nebel’s spine. When did Bull get this close? He hadn’t noticed Bull moving at all, not until he sees his own wide eyes reflected in Bull’s own.

Bull pulls back, but Nebel is frozen. He can’t escape Bull’s gaze, no matter how much his heart feels like it’s throwing itself against a wall. He wets his lips; the only movement it seems his body will allow. Bull smirks at that and shakes his head.

“But I’m not asking for that,” Bull says. He shuts his eye at last, freeing Nebel to think of anything other than the pain and desire he sees there.

Nebel plays the words back through his head again and again, until it finally dawns on him. “You want comfort.”

“ _Comfort_.” Bull spits out the word like it’s poison. His smile is dry, and Nebel knows the scornful laugh is meant only for himself. “Hah. If my Tama could see me now.”

Nebel releases a long, weary sigh. He can’t go on like this much longer. “Why’d we let this get so complicated? Everything was so much easier when it was just sex.”

“You’re the one who made it too easy to fall in love.”

The brazenness of it shocks a laugh out of Nebel. It’s a ridiculous, inappropriate to say at this moment, and he’s grateful for it. “I did not and you know it,” he mutters, trying to match the playful tone, even if it makes his stomach a little sick. Bull is just trying to cheer him up, but that’s alright. He welcomes the distraction.

Before he can think of what to say next, he spies movement from ahead. Bull’s grin fades too as a woman emerges from behind a tree, pulling a cart behind her. Nebel resists sighing in relief. The conversation was bound to end up turning to decisions and or, worse, back to what had happened last fall —

Nebel’s takes a purposefully heavy step onto a branch, and it cracks with a noise loud enough to catch her attention. The woman looks back over her shoulder, irritation and surprise in her eyes as she locks them with Nebel. She’s even younger than Marelwyn, the skin under her vallaslin still the slightest bit raised — it’s Elgar’nan’s, a design that has always intimidated Nebel for how much time it requires under the needle. She looks to be from a nomadic clan as well, dressed in forest-colored leathers and form-fitting trousers. Metal wheels on her cart point to trade with human settlements too; common for the traveling clans, less so for ones who can establish farms. Two limp sacks sink over her cart’s rails, bound tight with cord. The wheels must be freshly greased, as they carry the cart over rocks and roots with little noise.

She must be a hunter to be out this far out in the woods. Nebel wonders if he’s scared off her prey, but her wide eyes narrow as her gaze shifts upwards to Bull.

“Aneth ara,” she says as she steps backs and pulls the steering handle of the cart closer.

Nebel returns the greeting, then says, “No need for alarm, he’s with me. What are you up to?”

It shouldn’t be a surprise that she answers in Elvhen, still wary of Bull. Nebel strings together the words he knows into fractured sentences, bound together by Common as necessary. The well offers no help, as usual, but there wouldn’t be any point to speaking ancient words she’s never heard used either.

He explains that Bull is his friend. She has little to say. He doubts those are unrelated.

“Dareth shiral,” Nebel says. “Stay safe.”

She lifts her knuckles to her lips — a farewell in the north, he’s pretty sure — and the cart follows her away with its well-greased hum.

Nebel returns to where Bull waits for him, unaware he’d even stepped away. For the first time, Nebel realizes he’s returned to where he’d foraged earlier, where the trees no longer welcome light through their branches. He doesn’t mind the low light — to him, it feels like a curtain to hide their troubles from the watchful eyes of the rest of the world. But Bull’s eye has squinted down to a tiny slit, and memories return of all those times Bull had asked for a torch even in the caves Nebel had thought were lit just fine. So he waves for Bull to follow him back the way they’ve come, towards where he can make out the glimmers of dew on the grass. The wrinkles around Bull’s eye relax.

“You don’t speak Elvhen much,” Bull says as they begin to walk.

“Not enough left of it to hold much conversation.” In hindsight, that was the most glaring sign that something was strange about Solas. “I never studied it seriously, either. Every apprentice here could talk circles around me.” Nebel shrugs. “Probably would have an easier time with the well, if I had.”

“I like hearing you speak it. It’s not as toothy as Common. Less spit.” Bull accentuates the _p_ sound with a wet pop. “You put more tongue into it. Like you’re singin’ or something.”

“We were just talking about hunting,” Nebel says, turning his face over his shoulder away from Bull. The woman has already moved on, but it sufficiently hides the pink on his cheeks. “She’s on her way back from hunting rabbits.”

“Rabbits?”

“Yeah. There’s a number of burrows that way, apparently. Said she had good luck with the nets today.”

Nebel turns back to Bull, but finds he’s accidentally walked a few steps of him. Bull must have stopped at some point, because his legs certainly couldn’t bring him that far ahead otherwise. Nebel raises an eyebrow in an unspoken question.

“She didn’t have rabbits,” Bull says. “It was only dirt in those bags.”

_Dirt_? Bags of dirt, large enough to cover the surface of the cart, a cart that’s in turn large enough to carry … he doesn’t want to think about it. Bull could be wrong, of course. But he so rarely is in these matters.

Whatever this is, it can’t happen here. Not on his watch, not when everyone here deserves a single undisturbed week of respite from the sorry state of the rest of the world. This may well be the final Arlathvhen before the Veil comes crumbling down, and he will not let anything disrupt it.

“We need to turn back,” he says, knife heavy in his hand.


	9. Chapter 9

Fenris shouldn’t have slept through the night.

He doesn’t know what he was thinking. It’s safer to move in the evening, when the cover of darkness opens avenues he wouldn’t dare think of taking in daylight. He feels the heat of a sun already risen and knows there will be eyes on him and ears listening to his every word.

But he still needs to move. He doesn’t have a choice, not if he wants to avoid Danarius’s hunters.

He takes stock of what he has, what he hasn’t lost in the chase. A carving knife. A bedroll. A sword, freshly sharpened, with a red ribbon tied around the hilt.

_Snap._ He jumps to a crouch as wood splinters only feet from from the tent. Heavy, fast steps. Little care for quiet. Likely human.

Fenris hovers his fingers over the knife, surrounded by the shadows that reveal his every movement. He listens for the rhythm of the hunter’s footsteps — a _crik shk crik_ that’s a beat off from Fenris’s own breath — and in-time with the crunch of a heavy step, he seizes the blade and hides it behind the small of his back. One breath. He wills his fingers to still. Another. A single twitch could mean the end, sent back to Tevinter, memories fished out until he’s an obedient shell yet again.

He can’t go back.

The flap of the tent opens with his third exhale. There’s a man — bearded, human, dressed in leathers, smiling. Fenris’s markings ignite, a white flame coursing through his veins.

“Whoa!” the man yells, but he doesn’t have the sense to run. Instead, he fully enters the tent, open palms held next to broad shoulders. “It’s just me, Fen.”

_Fen._ Acid climbs his throat, holding him still. He doesn’t understand why; he doesn’t know this man, he has no reason to hesitate.

The man grins and holds out a piece of parchment between two fingers, flagrant with his lack of concern. He must have something hidden up his sleeve to be so arrogant. Poison, explosives, or — the most likely scenario, knowing the people Danarius prefers to hire — magic in his blood.

The parchment flaps and shudders as the man shakes his hand. “Found this left for you while you were napping,” he says. “Shadier than a Chantry wine cellar, if you’re askin’ me.”

Fenris doesn’t know what game this man is playing or why he’s so determined to toy with him. Slavers don’t usually see the point in attempting to speak with the wild animals that have broken free of their cages.

“Still got sleep in your eyes, huh?” The man holds the parchment in front of Fenris’s face, blocking too much of his vision but leaving him nowhere to run. Charcoal lines form some sort of diagram, and cluttered in the corner is a smudged afterthought of a note.

He reads: _I’d like to speak with you. I may need your help._

He … reads.

Sweat stings in Fenris’s eyes. That’s — it’s not possible. He shakes his head, blinking back the darkness in the edges of his vision. He looks again. The letters are just as legible, forming full sentences in his head, even as he knows that he can’t read them. He can’t, right?

_I’d like to speak with you._

He can.

It happened, again.

The burn in his skin dies away, pulsing like a healing wound that doesn’t want to close. He presses his hand to his forehead as he falls out of the crouch, legs folding into a tangle in front of him. He sets the knife down behind his back. If he’s lucky, Hawke didn’t notice it.

He wasn’t thinking of Tevinter, not this time. But was he dreaming of it? Is that how he lost himself back there? If even sleep isn’t safe —

“You alright? You look a little shaky.”

“I am fine, Hawke,” he mutters. Hawke frowns and reaches out like he might attempt to wipe the sweat from Fenris’s forehead, but Fenris pulls back. He snatches the parchment from Hawke, ripping a tear through the paper before Hawke releases it. The tremor in his hands is unstoppable, and moving faster than Hawke’s eyes is the only way to hide it.

It’s a map, vaguely. There are few details, only a rough outline of the Arlathvhen grounds. He sees the road they entered through, the forest they rest in now, and the jagged edge of the cliff. The main clearing is labeled as such, but everything else is represented through smudged symbols in charcoal.

And a label scrawled above an arrow, pointing to a part of the forest deeper than Fenris has ventured: _I’ll be waiting here._

Finally, a sign. Anything to put a stop to this dreadful waiting. He tucks the knife into his belt, checks that his pack has at least a handful of healing potions in it, and fumbles for his sword. He’d rather not need it, but he’s not about to be caught off-guard.

“Are you really going?” Hawke asks, shifting to cover the entrance of the tent. “You’ve gotta know this is a trap.”

“Yes.” Fenris runs his fingers down the length of the red fabric around the hilt, a staple of his life for so many years. He hates that he now knows what it feels like to look at it and feel no memories attached. “I don’t have another option.”

“Well, if I can’t talk you out of it, I’ll at least be your back up.”

Fenris eyes the map again. If the distance isn’t skewed by poor mapping skills, he figures it should take him no more than thirty minutes to arrive. “No. I need to go on my own. I don’t think she’ll be honest if you’re there.”

“She?” Hawke raises an eyebrow.

“Yes. Didn’t I tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

_That’s strange._ Fenris had to have mentioned the woman with the book. Certainly he wouldn’t forget to tell Hawke something so vital, not when the stakes are so high, not when she’s their only lead. But the memory isn’t there, no matter how much it seems it should be.

It must have been the rush of the night and the stress of the morning. If they hadn’t needed to deal with Lavellan and Iron Bull so soon after meeting that woman, then Fenris surely would have remembered.

“I’ll explain later,” he says.

“Be safe, Fen. I’m coming after you if you aren’t back by supper.” Hawke claps Fenris on the shoulder. “I’ve got big plans for this fish, you know.”

Fenris pauses before leaving the tent. He watches Hawke, always wearing that smile that shows both rows of teeth, always lacking the full force of its joy in his eyes. He memorizes the dimples. The coarse beard that grows over them. The freckles that the sun has scattered over his nose.

_Hawke_ , he thinks to himself again and again. _Hawke._

He’ll remember this time.

* * *

The shadows are long tendrils under the setting orange sun when Fenris makes it to the spot marked on the map. The walk took about the time that he expected it would. What he didn’t expect was to step into a barren campsite and find the Iron Bull pinning an elven woman into the dirt and the Inquisitor attempting to bind her hands.

Fenris draws his sword. “What is going on?”

The end of a rope drops from Lavellan’s mouth, and the knot around the woman’s wrists unwinds. “Fenris?”

They clearly weren’t expecting company.

The woman takes her chance to jab her fist up into Iron Bull’s throat, then attempts to ram her fingernails into his remaining eye. Lavellan slaps her hand down just inches before it connects.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Iron Bull coughs out.

“Explain yourselves!” Fenris demands, drowned out by the start of the woman’s scream before Lavellan shoves his hand over her mouth. She bites; Lavellan hisses.

“Not in a position to _explain_ right now!” Iron Bull calls as her legs flail about under his straddle.

The light had been dim in the tent when he’d met her, but Fenris recognizes that cropped hair, her muscled figure, and those same tight leather clothes. And of course, the green tattoo covering the right half of her face. Whatever this cultist had done to give herself away, it better not have involved Fenris’s own name.

“We need to get her restrained first, then we’ll talk, alright?” Lavellan grabs the rope as soon as Iron Bull gets her arms pinned back to the ground, but even the Qunari’s muscles flex as he grapples with her. “Give us a hand!”

The woman makes eye contact with Fenris, and without Lavellan’s hand there to block her, she’s free to scream again. “Help!” She slams her feet into the ground, thrusting her whole body with enough strength to unbalance both men. “Why are you just standing there? Help me!”

Fenris doesn’t need to see any more of this. This is it. He can take care of Solas’s bargain and move on from this wretched place. He’s relieved that the _odd guests_ ended up being these two morons instead of a certain mage.

Fenris strides forward. “Let her go.”

Fenris appreciates the chance to approach Iron Bull on his blind side, because it means he gets the satisfaction of seeing the man’s face fall into shock when he turns to find a sword pointed at his nose. The woman uses his distraction to wrench her hands free. Before Lavellan can regain his hold on her, she grabs one of Iron Bull’s horns and slams it into the ground.

“ _Shit_ ,” Iron Bull says. “Would you fucking stay still?”

Lavellan bears his hand down onto her sternum while the Iron Bull rights himself. “Fenris. I know this looks bad, but you need to trust us. She’s dangerous, she was trying to attack — “

The woman throws her body upward and her head connects with Lavellan’s chin with a sound like iron splitting stone. He falls back with a choked gasp, clutching his jaw while the woman grips her head and hisses through gritted teeth. Fenris wonders what she expected from such a move. But she still recovers quicker than Lavellan, rolling over onto her knees while Lavellan remains down.

Neither she nor Fenris have a chance to react before Iron Bull snarls and seizes her neck. He uses his other hand to throw her back to the dirt, but his fingers stay pressed into her windpipe. He doesn’t let go, not even as her scream dies off into a desperate, frothing gurgle from a throat closed off from air. Fenris knows the sound all too well; he’s made it himself, countless times. He knows that pressure: the pain as his lungs filled with liquid, the fight against instincts to thrash and gasp in search of escape. Struggling only makes the darkness come faster. He can’t remember what grievance it is he committed against Danarius. It doesn’t matter now. Laughter rings out; glee strikes his eardrums. His pleas are nothing more than bubbles.

“Stop it, _stop it_ , get out of him!”

The darkness fades. Fenris gasps in a breath that feels like the first gulp of a potion after a stab wound, and with re-focused eyes, he looks down.

His hand is lit like a flame and delved deep into the Iron Bull’s back.

“ _Vashedan._ “ Iron Bull inhales, and Fenris _feels_ it. His fingers brush muscle, bone, intestines, lungs.

Fenris doesn’t move. He’s not sure what will happen if he does.

“Get off him!” Lavellan cries from his knees, eyes red and full of water. The woman has stopped screaming, staring up at them all in shock, but Iron Bull’s hand is still on her neck.

“Let go of her,” Fenris says.

“Bull, please, just do it, this isn’t worth it — “

“No can do. Not risking her running off and hurting someone.“

“Let her go!” Fenris yells. He doesn’t mean for his hand to twitch, but it does, and he feels a mass of muscle tighten.

There’s a push and then a pull of muscle as Iron Bull swallows. Fenris has never spent this long with his hand incorporeal, fingers straining as they feel every detail of the flesh they’re in.

“This feels weirder than I thought it would,” Iron Bull mutters.

“Stop it, stop this, Fenris, you’re going to kill him!“ Lavellan starts to beg and then doesn’t stop. His words become incoherent, choked strings of pleas, and Fenris feels Iron Bull’s effort to keep his breathing shallow and his body relaxed.

“Let her go,” Fenris says, “and then we will talk — ”

Fenris sees red. It sprays across Iron Bull’s back. Blood seeps down Fenris’s arm, slow slivers of it dribbling onto the woman below. A pain erupts in his shoulder. A hand throws him back, a scream shakes his throat, and he falls back to the ground.

_He didn’t mean to._

He has only enough time for the thought before his vision clears. He blinks away the sting in his eyes and sits up to see Iron Bull’s body still upright, still bent over the woman, and not at all the slumped corpse he was expecting. Fenris spreads his hands in his lap. There’s no heart in them. His fingers are their usual brown, splattered with red, but not painted in it. Fresh blood drips down into them from above.

Time moves like thick foggy air as he gives an experimental touch to the pain in his shoulder. He shudders. Warm blood covers the cold metal of a knife, lodged deep enough to stand on its own. Fenris rips it out and recognizes it one of the daggers he’d confiscated from Lavellan yesterday.

Whatever shock had been dulling the pain peels away. Fenris gasps and presses his hand against the wound. Lavellan bends over Iron Bull, not even sparing Fenris a glance.

Fenris throws the dagger at his feet. “Why would you do that? You could have killed us both!”

“I needed you to let go!” Lavellan says, voice a cracked mess.

“Damn, kadan,” Iron Bull breathes. “I sure felt that.”

Something about the words makes Lavellan cringe. He runs his hand up and down Iron Bull’s back, searching for a wound that wouldn’t be there either way. “Are you okay, Bull?”

The woman stares at Fenris as if he’s a creature that’s crawled straight out of the Deep Roads. Even with Iron Bull’s hand off her throat, she makes no more moves to throw him.

“Yeah, I’m good. Thanks.” Iron Bull grunts. “That’s some freaky shit.”

Lavellan holds Iron Bull like he’s a child to be comforted, even as the Qunari sits atop a shell-shocked woman. Another drop of Fenris’s own blood falls onto her face.

He won’t let them win this. He’d dropped his sword when his mind had blacked out, but he doesn’t need it. He rushes forward, catching both men off-guard, and tackles Lavellan to the ground. He gets one hand in his hair and uses the other to pin Lavellan’s arm down. He only wishes he had another to punch his dumbfounded face.

“Oh, come on, can’t we all just relax for one goddamn second?” Bull growls.

The world flashes blue and white, like he’s been hit by a wave about to break on the shore. Fenris screams. A shock travels the length of his body, electrifying every last nerve until he feels like he’s being stretched too far and can only wait for the moment he snaps in half.

“ _Ow.”_ He hears a voice outside of him say, and then the shocks stop.

Fenris opens his eyes to the sky. The pain in his shoulder is amplified by the static in his joints and the hard ground he’s found himself thrown against. As he sits up, his groan joins a chorus, and he looks over to see Lavellan, Iron Bull, and the woman all in similar states of pained confusion.

“Stop this!” someone yells. Considering the four people around are already incapacitated, Fenris thinks the warning came a minute too late. He looks up to see Merrill, the last blue coils of magic still jumping from her hands, and beside her —

The woman from the tent.

Fenris snaps his head down to the moaning woman, her neck and arms already beginning to swell, and realizes he has no idea who she is.

Same hair, same tattoos — but the tent woman wears canvas clothes that hang from her frail arms, while the woman on the ground has muscles covered in leather. And now that he doesn’t have the distraction of fighting off two crazed men, he does remember the tattoos he’d seen in that tent being a deep blue, not a forest green. It must have been this strange evening light that threw him.

The woman beside Merrill is stock-still, one hand covering her mouth and the other pressed to her chest. A basket lies on its side in front of her feet, a cluster of apples and plums still rolling away. Her gaze jumps from one person to the next, eventually and understandably settling on the giant horned man rubbing his forehead and climbing to his feet.

“Who — why are you all here?” she asks, and Fenris doesn’t miss how her hand inches towards her back. Good to know, in case it comes to a fight. Surprise weapons account for more than a few of his scars.

And there may well be a fight coming, if he’s right about why Merrill’s with her. They look companionable enough, but Merrill could be putting on an act until the right moment to strike. “What are you planning, Merrill?” he asks/

“What … what do you mean, what am I planning? I should be asking what you all are doing here, making such a mess of Shielan’s campsite.” Merrill bends to right the basket and retrieve a few of the fruit. “Shielan asked to speak with me. She’s a nice woman. Certainly doesn’t deserve coming back to all of this.”

Fenris hears a yelp and a thud behind him. He turns, and Lavellan is sprawled out on his stomach, hand hand wrapped around the ankle of the captive woman, who’s fallen into a similar position. It looks as if she’d made a mad dash for the trees, and Lavellan had thrown his body just in time to catch her. Iron Bull steps over with a nod and pulls the woman’s arms behind her back.

“This who you were after, then?” asks Iron Bull as he ties her wrists together in some mess of a knot. She seems too dazed to resist this time.

Confusion holds Fenris still. He doesn’t know whether to slice open the ropes and give her a chance to run or if he should be rushing this Shielan woman instead. Ultimately, it makes no difference: he knows that either choice would end in another round of Merrill’s lightning.

If Shielan had another basket of fruit, Fenris is sure she’d have dropped it again. Her eyes seem to lose their focus. “She was looking for me?”

Iron Bull shifts to take care of binding his captive’s legs as well. “With some ropes and ether, yeah. Got a whole cart to finish the business, too.”

“Oh, Creators,” Shielan says, her skin draining of its last shades of blood as she bends over, clutching her stomach like it might empty itself at any second.

“We were trying to stop her,” Lavellan says, brushing off his clothes and climbing to his feet. “It would have gone fine if not for _someone_ showing up and trying to kill us.”

Merrill looks between Lavellan and Iron Bull with pinched brows. They shoot up in horror as her gaze lands on Fenris. All he sees is a hand coming towards him, drenched in spinning lights like the crystal chandeliers of a manor, and his body flings itself back.

Merrill stops. Her hand hovers over empty air. “Fenris, you’re … you’re hurt. Will you please let me heal you?”

_Kaffas_. He has no other choice, does he? He grits his teeth, keenly aware that there’s a fight brewing, his sword-arm is injured, and these people aren’t going to wait for him to run off and find a potion. Lavellan might have one; Fenris would rather face losing his arm than ask him for help. It feels like a lost battle when he shuts his eyes and nods. The backs of his eyelids light up in blue, and the hand on his shoulder stings for only a second before a pleasant chill courses through the muscles and stops the throbbing.

_Pleasant_. Of course it would be. But even the cruelest of magic can feel soothing as it worms it way through blood vessels. Fenris appreciates the relief from pain; that doesn’t mean he’ll accept it again.

When he opens his eyes, Merrill is already squatting beside Iron Bull’s hostage. The woman refuses to lift her face from the dirt. “Who are you?” Merrill asks. “Why were you coming for Shielan?”

Fenris and the others crowd around the bound woman — excluding Shielan, that is, who stays unmoving from the spot where she first froze. Lavellan sits, rubbing the butt of his hand against his swelling jaw, Iron Bull standing on his side. Merrill and Fenris remain standing on the other. The woman stays silent. If not for her rapid breaths, Fenris would think her dead.

“Hey. Some friendly advice for you. This silent act isn’t gonna get you far,” Iron Bull says, prodding her head with his boot. ”You wanna take that mage on? She’ll melt your brain out your ears if you don’t give her what she wants. Also, that guy can stick his hand through your heart. Doesn’t feel great. Trust me.”

The woman lets out a grunt and turns her head to the side with Fenris and Merrill. “My name is Ghilanna,” she murmurs.

Iron Bull is undeterred. He walks around to the other side and looks down at her fuming, dirt-caked face. “Okay. That’s a start. Now what did you want with her?”

She grumbles something incoherent. Lavellan and Merrill’s faces darken, so Fenris guesses it must have been some particularly rude Elvish.

“I know it’s gotta be a shock, but I actually don’t speak Elvhen,” says Iron Bull. “Try again.”

She makes a strained sound, like someone trying to expel something too large for their body. Iron Bull prods her again, less gentle this time.

She mumbles, “It was just about the money.”

“Sorry, what was that?” Merrill asks, leaning in.

Ghilanna lets out a long, frustrated howl, the last roar of someone who knows they have nowhere else to run. “The stupid money, alright?”

“What money?” Lavellan demands.

She rolls her eyes. “Over in Montsimmard, there’re these two guys — I don’t know, I met them at the tavern.”

Fenris hears movement; he looks over his shoulder to see Shielan stepping backwards like someone attempting to appease an approaching feral animal.

Ghilanna continues, “They’re looking for her. Got a description, proper name of her vallaslin and all. Offered a good chunk of coin for her.” The muscles around her shoulders shift in what looks like an attempted shrug. “Wasn’t planning on killing her though. They made it real clear they needed her alive.”

Shielan stops inches from tripping over her tent. Both of her hands fly to her mouth, and Fenris notices for the first time just how many scars criss-cross the backs of them. “This can’t be … No. Creators, no.“ Her back curls into an arch; her breaths come in shallow, gasping swallows. “They found me.”

Lavellan frowns and looks up at Iron Bull like he might hold any answers. “Who found you?”

“I thought I’d be safe here. But they still … they came all this way.” Her knees give out. She falls to the ground, bent over in a curled ball. “There’s nowhere. I have nowhere to go.”

_All this way._

The indistinct clothes. The uneven, patchy haircut. The tent that’s nothing more than a cloth draped over a rope. The fingers that never lose their tremor.

“You ran,” says Fenris. “You ran and they’re trying to get you back.”

And Fenris was here, fighting to defend the slaver chasing her. If he’d succeeded — if he’d freed her from Iron Bull and allowed her to run off into the woods … She would have run straight into the path of Shielan and Merrill. Fenris clutches his shoulder and squeezes, hoping to wring a touch more pain from it.

“I should leave. I should go,” Shielan says, pulling at her hair. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for all of this.”

“Oh, Fenris.” Merrill’s voice oozes pity, though there’s no telling who it’s directed to. “You poor thing.”

Iron Bull says, “Well, that’s fucked.”

Fenris grits his teeth, oddly self-conscious. He knows what he needs to do. Shielan is at risk here, and she needs to see him gentle, re-assuring, vulnerable. But he can’t let these people see that side of him.

In the end, it’s hardly a choice which problem is more important. “You’ve done no wrong,” Fenris says. “I … apologize.”

“You don’t need to. I’m not worth that,” she says, barely intelligible as her breath grows more and more shallow.

Lavellan stands on his toes to whisper something to Iron Bull. Iron Bull’s response is too quiet to hear but loud enough that Fenris’s ears strain to make out words anyway. He can’t focus like this; he needs to tune them out. Why couldn’t he have brought Hawke? Hawke could herd the rest of them away, all while dragging Ghilanna behind him, giving Fenris the space to handle the aftermath. He’s never dealt with slavers while under the eyes of an audience like this. Nor has he ever been an accidental accomplice before.

Fenris walks to Shielan and crouches to the point that their eyes are on the same level. “No. You are. Do not try to argue otherwise. I was quick to make assumptions. And I am truly sorry.”

“Don’t — “ Shielan digs her nails into the dirt. “Please, just forget about me. I’ll be out of here soon.”

Lavellan steps towards them wearing a mask of shock and concern. Of course he’s had nothing to say. This is the real struggle of the elves, the world that he’d turned his back to.

“Back off,” Fenris says. “Give her some damn space.” Lavellan looks offended, as if he’d possibly know better than Fenris how to handle this situation.

But as Shielan begins to claw at the cloth over her heart, where sweat has already settled into every fold, Lavellan finally steps away to stand by Iron Bull. Good. Fenris has enough to deal with without his useless attempts at assistance.

Shielan eyes dart to every corner of the forest except for Fenris’s face. “Shielan, yes? Listen to me. You’re not dying. Copy me, alright?” He makes a show of breathing in through his nose and only releasing it once the air within no longer holds the chill of the evening. She finally looks at him, but it’s with the face of someone watching a blood ritual. “Trust me.”

He goes through two more cycles before her heaving breaths stop, and finally, she follows him. “That’s it,” he says. “Focus.” They breathe together, _ins_ and _outs_ in the way the Fog Warriors taught him a lifetime long ago. Slowly, the color returns to her cheeks and the violent tremor in her palms become only a tremble. It helps slow his own heart down as well, though there’s no need to say that.

He allows her a moment of quiet. He’s relieved that none of the others break it, even the captive — Fenris spares her a glance and suspects that she may be in shock. Only once Shielan’s breaths have come to a steady rhythm does he speak again. “So that’s why you sent me that note. You wanted my advice, didn’t you?”

“I only wanted to speak with you. The other slaves still tell tales of you, in secret. The glowing wraith that managed to get away.” She lets out a dark laugh that jolts back everyone but Fenris. “But I’m not like you. I’m never going to escape this.”

“Is that why you came to the Arlathvhen?” Merrill comes to kneel by her other side. “You wanted to see Fenris?”

“No, I … I didn’t even know he’d be here. I was taken from my clan four years ago, and — I don’t know where they are. I don’t even know if anyone is left, if anyone survived after they came for us.” Shielan lets out a sob as the tears in her eyes spill over. “I just want to find them.”

She chokes out another round of cries, surprising Fenris more by the second. He can’t imagine weeping in front of anyone other than Hawke; too many people would be eager to turn his sorrow into a weapon to hurt him even more. Apparently, she didn’t come away with the same lessons from Tevinter.

“I’m so sorry,” Merrill says. “That’s what you wanted my help with, then?”

“Yes, I was hoping … I was scared people would judge me for coming here. But you seemed like you might understand.” Shielan clenches her eyes shut. “But they’d be right, in the end. I was wrong to ever set foot here. I’ve endangered everyone, I’ve brought slavers here — and what was the point? I can’t hide. They know my vallaslin, they knew where I’d be. I’ll never escape, I can’t run anymore, I can’t — “

“No. You’ve made it this far. You cannot turn back now.” Fenris demonstrates deep inhales and exhales until Shielan mimics him again. “It will not be easy. But they gave up on me, eventually, and I was considered particularly … prized. They will not chase you forever.”

“I doubt it.” Fenris jerks his head up to see Ghilanna rolling her eyes. Not in shock, then. “Those guys weren’t bounty-hunter-for-a-day types. You shoulda seen all the supplies they had.”

“You.” Fenris pushes past Lavellan and Iron Bull to grab a hold of Ghilanna’s hair and lift her face from the ground. “You would turn in one of your own? For what, a handful of gold?”

The moment her eyes meet his, her sneer fades away. Horror leaves no room for other emotions, and whatever expression is on Fenris’s face fills her with so much of it that her head begins to shake, so fast that he can’t tell if it’s intentional or an uncontrolled tremble. “I didn’t know what they wanted with her. I didn’t know she was a slave, I had no idea — ”

“That’s a lie!” he yells, dropping her from his grip and hearing a satisfying crack. “Tell me, what good reason would they have to send you after her with a fucking rag and bottle of ether?”

She wheezes rapidly. It sounds like her nose may have broken. “I’m sorry,” she cries. “I just wanted to leave.”

“Leave from where?” Lavellan asks.

“This! All of this shit. My clan. This stupid life. I’m so tired of being treated like a dirty rat. And then, after everything she said — ” Ghilanna jerks her bloodied face up at Merrill. “The Creators, all of that — there’s no point to any of this. What the fuck are we even doing? Why did I get this shit scrawled on my face? I only wanted the money so I could get out of here. Start a new life, where I don’t have to deal with any of bullshit.”

“And how did you know they wouldn’t just take you too after you delivered her? Why pay you when they could simply take both of you?”

“That’s — because I — “

Fenris decides that he doesn’t actually need her explanation. A slaver’s word is worth nothing more than the excrement they produce, and she lost any last bit of her own worth when she thought otherwise.

“Watch out!” Iron Bull yells, throwing his arm in front of Lavellan’s chest just as Fenris’s hand flashes. The light leaves behind only white outlines of his arm, as if the limb has faded into smoke.

“Wait! Don’t kill her, “ Lavellan says. “We can just capture her, pass her off to her Keeper — “

Lavellan reaches for Fenris’s still-corporeal wrist; Merrill beats him to it. Her grip on him is as hot as a brand and it only gets worse when she squeezes. Too close to his ear, she says, “Fenris, maybe you should listen — “

Fenris swings his arm in a wide arc, leaving behind trails of white light. She lets him go. He misses Lavellan by an inch. “Don’t touch me.”

“You need to stop,” Lavellan says.

Fenris disagrees. The glow of his markings is reflected in Ghilanna’s wide eyes, her face distorted and shifting behind his hand as if his arm is the gas of an overheated furnace.

“No, wait, please, no no _no_ ,“ she begs, rocking her bound limbs back and forth.

Lavellan makes another grab for Fenris, but Iron Bull pulls him back. “If everyone finds out about this,” Lavellan pleads, ”If they know they’ve been betrayed, that someone’s been gored in the woods — we can’t let the Arlathvhen end like this — “

“I don’t care.”

Fenris plunges his arm in and pulls out her heart. It beats twice in his hand, a _katunk-katunk_ like the last two raps of someone trapped on the other side of a locked door before going quiet.

It stills. Fenris drops it on her back.

“Ouch,” Iron Bull says.

Red spreads across the corpse, pooling between its shoulder blades. There’s usually more blood; Fenris rarely skips indulging in the _squelch_ of wringing out a crushed heart. For Shielan’s sake, he leaves it intact. He doesn’t want to make assumptions of her sensibilities; there’s a good chance she has horrific memories associated with blood, but there’s also a chance that she’s one of the ex-slaves who rejoices in the honor of stomping the heart under her own boot.

He watches her. Her fingers are pressed to her chest, tangled together without any pattern — two knuckles folded over one on the left, one thumb tucked inward and the other digging into the flesh of her wrist. He counts the seconds of their rise and fall. Shallow, but not quick enough to be panic.

“You … Are you fucking kidding me?” Lavellan stares at the heart like he himself is considering throwing it against a rock. But all at once, his fury shifts to Fenris. “What do you expect us to do now? Just dump her body somewhere? How the hell do you think we can explain this?”

“You’d rather I’d have let her flee?” Fenris asks as he stands, wiping the entrails off on his pants.

“We have our own ways of dealing with this! Maybe her Keeper would have killed her, maybe not! You shouldn’t have — “ Lavellan’s fist tightens around the hilt of his dagger, but he doesn’t draw it. The scorn on his face does nothing but fuel Fenris’s own rage. “You don’t care at all. You have no respect for the Arlathvhen, no respect for anything but yourself. _Hah_. Once in ten years. And you have to show up here, ruining everything. How many decades do you even think we have left?”

Some more cowardly people might find the Inquisitor’s ranting intimidating; Fenris finds it exhausting. “ _I’m_ the one actually doing something to protect these people. You’d turn a blind eye, all while slavers run amok. And for what? Decorum?”

“Her Keeper could have handled her! You’re just so eager to kill, to make some bloody point, you don’t think about anyone else — “

“Enough!” Merrill pounds her staff into the ground. “Is every day going to be like this between you two? Is there not enough going on?” She eyes the mess of blood like it’s somehow disappointed her. “We will take care of her. She wasn’t a very good person, no. But she was one of us, and we will send her off properly.”

Lavellan looks a scolded child as he crosses his arm over his chest.

“We’ll tell her Keeper what happened. And that will be it,” Merrill says. She lifts her face to the purple sky, eyes fixed on the crescent moon. “This is what a Keeper does. They carry a clan through tragedies. It will not be their first, nor will it be their last.”

“I can help,” Iron Bull says. “I don’t know what a Dalish burial entails, but, uh … I’m guessing the body needs to be taken care of. One way or another.”

He goes unacknowledged. Merrill turns to Shielan instead. Though tears run down Shielan’s cheeks, her face stays unnervingly calm. Not her eyes nor the rest of her body moves a muscle as she stares down at the heart on the ground.

“It’s alright, Shielan,” Merrill says, reaching out like she may wrap an arm around her shoulders. It hovers for a second as Merrill hesitates, then falls back down to her side. “We’ll keep you safe, alright? Go relax in your tent. I’ll make you some tea.”

“I can help as well. I will speak with Shielan while you handle the body,” Fenris says.

“Do you really think she wants to talk to you right now, looking like that?” Lavellan looks up and down Fenris’s arm as three more drops of blood drip from his fingertips to the ground. “Just leave, Fenris. Let us take care of this.”

* * *

“Oh, fuck.”

Hawke springs to his feet. Fenris doesn’t have time to react before Hawke’s hands are on him, patting him down, rubbing his arms, running through his hair to feel the shape of his head. Only once he seems satisfied that the blood staining his busy hands isn’t from Fenris does he relax. He settles on clutching both of Fenris’s elbows, as if Fenris is at risk of floating off somewhere. “Are you alright? What happened?”

Fenris tilts his head forward until it falls on Hawke’s shoulder. He gives a small nod, forehead rubbing against the leather of Hawke’s sleeve. Despite Fenris’s filth, Hawke’s arms still envelop him, and he’s held there, warm and secure and with the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. The drum of Hawke’s heart is somehow faster than the rhythm of his throbbing head. It feels like his skull is on the verge of bursting — he’d welcome that, though, if it meant a release of any of the pressure or a gap in the pain large enough to leave room for coherent thoughts.

“You look like death warmed over,” Hawke says.

“I’m fine.” Fenris lets out a sigh. He doesn’t raise his head. The darkness is a comfort to his tired eyes. “I killed one of the Dalish.”

Hawke’s fingers tense against his back. “Oh. Well then.” He leans his head down, his voice a quiet gust of air against Fenris’s ear. “Were they one of Solas’s?”

“No,” Fenris says, not bothering to whisper. “Not her. The one she was after … it is unlikely. I would be surprised if she was capable of that.”

Whether that makes sense or not, Fenris still feels the shift of Hawke’s neck nodding his head in acceptance. “Then, uh — ” Hawke coughs. “Do you need help hiding a body?”

“It’s taken care of.”

“Alrighty then.” Hawke begins rubbing slow circles on Fenris’s back, pausing only to dig into the muscles around his shoulder-blades. It feels less distant, less strange by the second, until it’s a grounding sensation that he’s loath to let end. “That’s my Fenris. Always on top of things.”

If Fenris could see outside himself, he wouldn’t be shocked to see Hawke’s hands glowing with the blue light of a healing spell. Hawke somehow knows the exact spots to press in his back to make him feel like a candle dripping stiff wax away until it’s nothing but an overflowing puddle. He hopes he can convince Hawke to continue this another time, when there’s time for the massage to spread down beyond his shoulders. But first —

“Would you like to go relieve some stress, Hawke? There’s two men at the tavern I’d like to go kill as well.”


	10. Chapter 10

Five months and eleven days ago, Nebel had woken with silence in his head and vomit stuck to his gums. As Bull had wordlessly clung to him, refusing to let him up even for water or the bathroom the entire night, Nebel had reached for the space in his mind where an audience usually eavesdropped on his every thought.

He’d found only a void and a single voice waiting to deliver him a message:

_You’d steal thousands of years of knowledge just to throw it all away._

Blurred images and muffled voices all that it offers now. Anger, if he’s unlucky enough. The voices don’t seem unified in their feelings of betrayal — every once in a while, he’ll sense an image of a blue sky or a pleasant meadow in his peripherals, but it’s always gone by the time he focuses on it — but the ones in favor of the silent treatment easily drown out the others.

He still feels like he’s dreaming, so it’s conveniently easier right now for him to think in images over words. The well takes better to that, when it _takes_ at all.

He imagines Fenris and gets a view of lightning crashing over a sea, one that looks like the water off the Storm Coast, if only the rocks were taller and the water clearer. Blue flashes on the horizon. He swears he feels static lifting his hair. And there’s Fenris, knee-deep in the sea, torn limb from limb as he’s ravaged by wind and waves and bolts of light.

The image is gone as soon as it arrives. The blackness he’s left with is too pure to be the back of his eyelids, lacking in all the fuzzy colors he usually sees when he shuts his eyes. No, this is a conjured vision, a blank scene meant to hide the one he’d just been gifted by one of the few voices that haven’t forsaken him.

_I don’t understand_ , he thinks, as loud as thoughts can be.

He sees a distorted image of himself, eyes closed, ears pouring out sand, and thinks that’s unnecessarily rude.

The sound of footfalls breaks apart the image. They come closer — slowly, softly, like the person doesn’t want to be heard — and then stop directly behind him. Nebel shakes the last remnants of the well out of his head. It takes him a moment to return to reality, where there’s no rainy grays or electric blues, and instead the morning light is painting the grass a soft orange.

Fenris stands behind him, arms crossed, glowering. Nebel tries not to groan. There’s a bandage wrapping Fenris’s shoulder, but from the way he drums his fingers impatiently across his elbow, it seems to be functioning properly. That’s good; Nebel would feel guilty if he’d accidentally paralyzed Fenris’s sword-arm.

Fenris asks, “What is it that you’re doing out here?”

“I was … praying,” Nebel says. He figures that will be revolting enough to Fenris to get him to leave.

“You weren’t. I’ve seen Merrill pray.”

Nebel grits his teeth and looks over the water, where the gap between the horizon and the sun is no larger than a sliver. Fenris couldn’t even give him time to wipe the crust out of his eyes before picking a fight. If he still believed in the Creators, he’d be sure that one of them sent Fenris as some demon meant to torment him. “Maybe she prays differently? Not all Dalish are the same, Fenris.”

“You were speaking to Solas, weren’t you?” Fenris asks. “Did he worm his way into your head?”

“No. What? I haven’t spoken to him since — “

“Why else would you be talking in Elvish to no one? Why would you lie about praying?” Fenris asks with all the confidence of a child who is sure they’ve caught their Keeper in a lie. “Perhaps you’re the one here to recruit.”

“Oh, _shut up_ ,” Nebel says. “Why are you even here? You don’t give a shit about the Dalish. You think all of this is stupid. You think you’re above everyone here.”

“Yes, I’d dare say I’m above people who’d hand one of their own back to their slavers.”

“That’s _one_ person!” Nebel jumps to his feet. He can’t stand looking up at Fenris’s upturned chin for another damn second. “And you didn’t need to kill her. Do you know how long we stayed up preparing her body?”

Fenris does nothing but shrug. “And do you know what I did last night? I actually took care of the slavers who hired her. Stop trying to defend her. She got what she deserved.”

“But _you_ are not the one to decide that.” Nebel pinches his nose and groans. “Gods, I still need to break the news to her Keeper.”

“I wouldn’t trust one of your Keepers to make the proper choice.”

“But you’d supposedly trust one of them to help with your markings? I don’t believe that for a second. Hawke dragged you here, didn’t he?”

Fenris says, “I don’t owe you any explanation.”

Nebel should walk away. He knows this. He knows that there’s nothing he could say to chip away at Fenris’s obstinance, and he hates fighting this sort of person.

But he’s so fucking tired, and all of this would be so much easier if he could just get Fenris to _leave_.

“You know, I’ve lost count of the number of idiotic humans I’ve tried to persuade that elves aren’t just pieces of cattle,” Nebel says. “But talking to you might be the worst of them all. It’s like running into a stone wall.”

“Tell yourself that, if it makes you feel better. We all know you were nothing more than a figurehead. A pointy-eared face to placate the elves into believing your army was any different from the others.”

Nebel digs his fingers into his palm until he feels his veins throb in protest.

“And what will you do now?” Fenris asks, and Nebel knows from the lift in his voice that he’s about to be mocked. “Hide away even more slavers because you don’t want your little party ruined? Claim to care about the elves and then run back to that murderer?”

Nebel doesn’t think before he responds. After years of stupid ox comments, defending Bull has become an instinct carved into him. “What gives you the right to judge him? Tell me, just how many innocents have _you_ killed in the name of Tevinter?”

“I didn’t have a choice. The Iron Bull could have left at any time.”

It’s a petulant, naive oversimplification, but trying to explain to Fenris why he’s wrong about anything has proven to be a waste of time and breath. Nebel gathers the scattered remains of his composure and wills himself into silence. Perhaps if he just stops responding, Fenris will get bored and wander off.

“Varric described you as some fearless leader, you know,” Fenris unfortunately continues. “How you must’ve fooled him. You never took a damn stand in your life.”

There really must be some sort of Creator out there, whispering in Fenris’s ear the exact words to make Nebel’s blood burn.

“And what about you?” Nebel snaps, tilting his head up to meet Fenris’s glare. “I’ve read the books. After everything you preach, you _still_ supported the mage rebellion.”

“I stood for what I believed. Meredith was little better than a magister, eager for a corral of slaves,” Fenris says. “And I believed in Hawke.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Nebel’s scoff is quiet, but still scathing enough to make Fenris close his arms over his chest.

“And what do you mean by that?”

“Has Hawke ever heard the word _no_ from you?”

Metal scrapes against metal as Fenris reaches up to adjust his sword in its scabbard. “Don’t speak on things you know nothing of. You have no right to chastise me. You abandoned the templars only because you could get more use out of some mages who were already beyond saving.”

“That is not true,” Nebel hisses. “You don’t know the whole story. Those mages were struggling, they just needed a hand to guide them, some structure — ”

“Your hand would’ve been better on anyone else.”

Nebel looks down at his fist curled against his thigh and becomes keenly aware of the uneven balance, the spot on his left thigh where a matching weight should be pressed.

He wonders if Fenris considers himself cruel.

“Fine. You want to know what I was doing here? I was trying to _help_ you,“ Nebel says. “Your tattoos are based off elvhen rituals, aren’t they? Well, guess what? I have a whole bunch of ancient elves I can ask directly if they know how to fix you.”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Fenris says.

“That’s true. But Hawke did.”

“Hawke isn’t me,” Fenris snarls. Ah. Nebel had wondered if Hawke had consulted Fenris before writing him. That answers that, then.

“I’m still going to do what I can,” Nebel says.

“I don’t need the help of someone like you. You’d sooner see me die of poison than choose between two vials of the antidote.”

_For fuck’s sake, enough is enough._ “Do you know what I gave up to get this knowledge? I’m bound, _forever_ , to the will of a goddess who turned out to be a fucking slave-owning mage. So forgive me if I want to see it put to use.”

Fenris’s stagnant, irritated expression finally breaks. As disinterested as he tries to look, Nebel doesn’t miss the furrow in his brow.

“I fail to see how that’s my problem,” Fenris says.

Nebel feels the urge to hit him. He wonders if Fenris has been after that this whole time, begging for a fist in his face. But he’s not going to. He was the fucking Inquisitor; he can keep his calm around yet another stubborn man spouting fighting words, just like the dozens before Fenris.

“I’m done with this. Come see me if you ever get over your pride,” Nebel says.

“Good luck with your martyrdom.“

_He was the fucking Inquisitor_ , Nebel reminds himself as he walks past Fenris with his head held high, even though he longs to reach back and strangle him.

* * *

The flames cling to the pot as if Nebel is tearing away its most prized possession. He sets the metal down on one of the rocks he’d found and hopes its surface is flat enough that the pot doesn’t tumble over. The halla herder he’d borrowed it from won’t be happy if he brings it back with a dent.

Once cooled and stirred, the mixture inside settles into the ashen color of maple trees. Still not quite right. Three more berries from the red pile, one from the brown. He gives it all one last stir and returns it to the eager fire.

“Silver for your thoughts,” Bull says.

Nebel wipes down the spoon and sets it on the rock. “Only a silver? They’re usually worth gold.”

“Consider it a down payment.”

Nebel debates keeping his mouth shut and not souring the peaceful mood they’ve managed to unearth. Especially after that bullshit with Fenris. There’s no good reason for him to be here at the Arlathvhen; Fenris and Merrill may seem surprisingly close, but he’s hardly doing her any favors if he was invited as a friend or bodyguard. Neither is Hawke, for that matter. And Fenris seems somehow less concerned than Nebel about finding a cure for his troubles.

From the look in Bull’s eye, Nebel knows he’s not going to get away with pretending nothing’s wrong, so he digs a little deeper and finds the words for the unease that’s eating at him. “I wish none of this had come up here. _Here_ , you know. Seems like everything’s always got to happen at once.”

“It’s like we’d always say: breaking fingers one by one hurts more than smashing the whole hand with a hammer.”

Nebel blinks and then smiles. “And how often did you need to say that?”

“As many times as there were hands that needed breaking. Speaking of — ” Bull taps a finger to his own chin. “How’s your jaw doing?”

“It’s fine. Got it healed while I was out trying to find Ghilanna’s Keeper.” He’d found out easily enough where said Keeper was camped. But he hadn’t been ready to pay him a visit, not while he still had so much to do and his brain was still finding its footing for the day. “How is your … insides?”

“Alright. Keep waiting to shit out an organ or something, but so far so good.”

Nebel gives an exaggerated gag. “I’ll say it right now: don’t call me over if you do. I promise you I do not want to see it.”

“You sure? That could be a once in a lifetime opportunity, to see a liver stuck in — “

“No! Stop, holy shit, stop. Creators, no.” Bull lets out a deep laugh from his belly, while Nebel shakes his head in disbelieving amusement.

It’s strange how natural it feels to laugh. He’s still angry with Bull, of course, though it feels more like a white-hot ball of iron sitting in his gut than any real fury — this weight he can’t get rid of, can’t even seem to look at or touch without pain. He’s glad to hear that Bull’s been spending his time here helping out the other clans, but a few favors can’t make up for what he’s stolen.

Even so, there’s still years between them, and his nervous wreck of a body has learned that one of the few safe spaces in the world is at Bull’s side. So he finds that he can’t wipe the smile off his face as he picks the spoon back up and lifts a scoop of the mixture to his eyes. The color looks right, finally. A warm, reddish-brown, like the bark of a sunlit honey pine. It’s a shame that there’s none up here, but he swears he saw a few down by the lake. Pines make the best perches for hammocks. Watching the mixture congeal, he can nearly taste the nuts from the cones he’d pluck from their low-hanging branches, popping seed after seed into his mouth after a long day on the hunt. And then inevitably falling asleep in the rocking wind, only to be fetched by one of elders once the stars had already come out.

“Do you ever miss it, Bull?”

“Skyhold? ‘Course I do. Good ale, good dungeons. What’s not to miss?”

“The holes in the roof, for one.” Nebel flicks a drop of the mix in Bull’s direction. “I meant the Qun.”

“Ah.” Bull digs the heel of his boot into the ground, twisting it back and forth in the soil. “Yeah, sometimes. It was easier. Food was better, too.”

“If they gave you the chance — “

“No.” Bull cuts him off with such certainty, but Nebel still feels the urge to ask if he’s sure. Bull seems to hear the unasked question and sighs. “I mean, sure, it’s not like I suddenly hated everything the Qun taught me. I still believed — still do, sometimes — that they’re right.”

It’s not comforting to hear, but it would be naive to think Bull’s beliefs in the Qun all sunk along with the Dreadnaught. It’s not like Nebel can’t relate, either; when nothing else can calm his nerves, Nebel still finds himself praying to gods that he knows aren’t listening.

Whatever look is on Nebel’s face makes Bull cough. “Well, parts of it. Not the whole, you know, killing people if they don’t submit thing. Or the lip-sewing shit.”

“Right.”

“But I’m glad I left,” Bull says. “This way of life is … messy. Easy to get too tangled up in people. But as it turns out, I kinda like that.”

“Tangled, huh?”

Bull lets out three short breaths of a sardonic laugh. “Always knew I was a bit of a masochist, deep down.” He kicks at the pile of dirt he’s turned up. “Who knew that actually caring about shit hurts?”

“I would have had a much easier time making decisions if I didn’t care.”

“You would have. You’re the sort the Qun is made for.”

Nebel bristles. The idea of having some guidelines to rid himself of every tough decisions is certainly comforting, but he’d rather die than turn himself over to some _re-educators_ to mess around in his head. Speaking of —

“You said you didn’t tell me all this, because … well.” He searches for words that don’t feel like sand on his tongue. “You were afraid _I’d_ do something stupid.”

“That wasn’t the whole reason.”

“I know. But it’s part of it.” The same nausea and dizziness come back to him, as if he’s back there, as if spadeleaf is spreading through his system once again. That same building dread and chills as he’d bent over a bucket, spilling bile until it no longer came up green. “We never talked about it, did we?”

“You wanted to put it behind you.”

“I did. And so did you.” This time, Nebel is the one to level Bull’s protests with a raised brow. “Maybe you never said that, but I know you.”

“‘Course I did,” Bull says, tipping back his head. “I saw the asala-taar in you, but I thought we were doing alright. Thought me and the Chargers were keeping your head up.”

_Bull blames himself_ , Nebel realizes with a lurch in his stomach. The pot of liquid suddenly looks like vomit.

“Gods, no. It wasn’t your fault, Bull. Not in any way. I just … “ _Wanted a way out. Wanted sleep. Wanted an end to the pain. Wanted to not think anymore._ “I don’t know what I wanted. But, I mean, come on. The mighty Iron Bull, saddled with some washed-up has-been? I thought I was doing the world a favor.”

Bull shoots upright. “A favor? That’s a crock of shit.” Bull unexpectedly looks as furious and disgusted as he would when facing down Venatori mages, if not more so. “You’re one of the few good things in this fucked-up world. Where do you think I’d be without you?”

_Still with the Qun, maybe_ — _no, that desertion was coming either way. Definitely still leading the Chargers._

“You actually want me to be better. And not because you want more power or gold or sex, or whatever it is people see in me.” Bull’s slouch returns. “You give a shit about me.”

“I do. I don’t know how someone couldn’t.”

“Like I said. Not giving a shit is always easier.”

The misery on Bull’s face pulls on old heartstrings, ones that make Nebel want to stand and embrace him. He only nods instead. “Then, if we decide — if we want to keep going, together. This is something we need to talk about.” He locks eyes with Bull. “But I swear to you, I will not do that again. No matter what happens.”

After a moment of scrutinizing eye contact that Nebel refuses to back down from, a tension leaves Bull’s body. Despite Nebel feeling like he waded through the emotional equivalent of a swamp, Bull still manages to smile. “Gonna hold you to that,” he says.

“Alright,” Nebel says. He feels a lightness in him, one that he’s hesitantly willing to call relief. “Well, that’s a start, I guess.”

The mixture has thickened to the point that any more heat would only scorch it. He’s looking to make a paste, not a lump of clay, so he pulls the pot off the fire once again. Bull flicks twigs into the flames. The sun reflects off the metal of the pan, beating directly down on the back of his neck. He really should be going. Ghilanna’s Keeper is bound to have noticed her absence, and Nebel’s not keen on him finding out the reason on his own.

“So. What now?” Bull asks. Nebel bites his cheek. This is what he gets for wishing for yet another distraction.

“I don’t know, Bull,” he whispers. “I made some assumptions about you. You told me you don’t do relationships under the Qun, but … I guess I didn’t think about what that meant. I need time, okay?”

Bull lets out a huff, and Nebel hates that it makes his lips twitch up into yet another smile. More than any of the sadness, the shame, the concern — the frustration sounds natural. It sounds like the Bull he knows, from back when things made sense.

“Yeah, alright. Can’t say I love that, but I get it.” Bull’s head tilts down until his horns point directly at Nebel. He folds his hands in his lap. Nebel doesn’t like where this is going; Bull never looks this solemn. “I do have another confession to make though.”

“Okay.” Nebel takes one long breath and digs his nails into his thigh. It will be fine. Whatever it is, he can handle it. “Tell me.”

“I was the one who drank your stash of Dalish wine.”

“Excuse me?”

The grave expression on Bull’s face gives away to a smirk. “I thought it was a health potion gone rancid.”

Nebel stares, blank, while Bull waits with mischievous glee on his face. “Oh, you _asshole_ ,” Nebel says as he bursts into laughter. If things were different, he’d jump on Bull in a mock rage, make a show of trying to wrestle him to the ground, and then fake surprise when Bull pins him down with ease. He chooses not to follow the rest of that line of thought.

“Alright, what’re you making?” Bull asks.

“ _Those_ are healing potions.” Nebel points to the three corked vials sitting in a neat line on the ground. “Which do not go bad, I’ll have you know. That one,” he says, gesturing to the other line, “helps with sleep.”

“Bet Fenris could use that.”

Nebel scoffs. “He’d think it was poison, coming from me.” He picks up one of the deep purple vials and watches as the color shifts to lavender and back in the light. “It stops you from dreaming. Mages tend to like it, but it can be helpful for others too. And this one …” He picks the spoon back up and taps it on the edge of the pot. “It’s for hiding tattoos. It may help her, in a pinch.”

“Huh.” Bull leans over and peers into the pot. “You ever worn that?”

“Last time I did, I woke up bound in shackles with a mark stuck on my hand.”

“Sounds like a hell of a night.”

Nebel chuckles. With a few final adjustments, the thick mixture finally looks enough like Shielan’s skin, or at least his memory of it. Bull offers to help bottle it up, but Nebel turns him down, happy for something to put off the inevitably tense conversation for a few minutes longer.

“Alright. Let me go drop these off,” he says as he tucks the vials into his pack and slings it over his shoulder.

“Wait.” Bull holds up a hand and ducks into the tent. He comes back with a bag that Nebel doesn’t recognize but is nearly double the size of his own. “Here,” Bull says, holding it open and at arms-length.

Nebel peeks over the edge, perplexed. The inside of the bag reminds him of the sacks of belongings the refugees of Haven had dragged up the Frostbacks; it looks like the remnants of someone’s house, hastily thrown into a pack as they’ve run out the door. There’s cookware, sheathed knives, bandages, clothing, an extra pair of shoes, and so much more Nebel can’t make out underneath.

Nebel asks, “Where did you get all this?”

“Traded some stuff.”

Nebel looks up from what he thinks is a sieve and sees Bull is missing the armor from his shoulder. He smiles and accepts the bag, hefting it up close to his chest. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate it, vhenan.”

Bull’s face falls into shock. Nebel stares, confused. Of course she’ll like it, it’s not like she’s got —

_Oh._

A pit forms in his heart, his stupid heart that needs to learn to stop speaking for him.

“Sorry,” Nebel says, heat in his cheeks. “I didn’t mean — “

“It’s alright. No worries. We’ll forget about it.”

The silence between them sticks like sap between the fingers. Nebel has a feeling that trying to break it would only spread it further. Bull doesn’t try either. Without a word between them, Bull helps rearrange the weight on Nebel’s back until he can finally manage to walk under it.

* * *

Nebel’s weighted walk ends with him in front of the tent reserved for the scribes. In the center of the ceremony grounds, it’s a place for those with actually decent memories and handwriting to work without distraction. He doesn’t know why Ghilanna’s Keeper would be here, but the herder he’d borrowed the cooking pots from had sworn that she’d seen him enter the tent that morning. It’s unexpected, but at least there will be some privacy while he breaks the news.

He enters the tent. Every word he’d planned goes up in smoke when he sees Merrill, Shielan, the Keeper and a young man gathered around a pot of tea. He considers turning on his heel, but then four pairs of eyes blink up at him and he freezes like a halla caught in an open field.

“Sit, lethallin.” The Keeper pats the ground to his right. Silver paints the hair around his temples, the same color as the many delicate chains that hang from his lobes, a red gem dangling from each of them. “Merrill has informed me of what’s come to pass.”

“I … see.” Nebel sits, careful to avoid knocking over one of the many stacks of papers or any of the jars of ink. His arm aches in relief as he finally sets down the bags. Well, that’s done. He feels an ounce of relief and several tons of regret as he realizes that while he’d been offer bickering with Fenris and brewing potions, Merrill had come here with tea and taken care of it all.

“Renan, would you care for a break? Go, stretch your legs,” the Keeper says. “We can continue later.”

The young man in the corner gathers the papers strewn about in front of him and sets them a pile that’s indistinguishable from the others to Nebel’s eye. When he’s left the tent, the Keeper introduces himself: Taelaran, of the Synfoedd. Once again, Nebel’s missing arm is all the introduction he needs. That, or Taelaran had unfortunately witnessed the shitshow that had been the opening night of ceremonies.

“I am sorry for Ghilanna’s trouble. Thank you for treating her with respect.” Taelaran lifts the top page of the pile and skims it. It seems to satisfy him; he returns it, re-aligning the corners with precision. “Renan is helping me write her history. It will not be an easy one.”

Nebel glances at Merrill. She’d said she always wanted to be one of the scribes, hadn’t she? Maybe in another life, one of these piles of parchment and feather quills would be her own. She’d probably written plenty of din’andirths as practice; even those still without vallaslin were allowed that duty, at least in the Lavellan clan. A history of lost life doesn’t need to be perfect, so long as it’s written with honesty and love — or that’s what the hearthmaster had said, when the Blight had emptied them of their paper supply.

Nebel’s never attempted one. He wouldn’t know where to start.

Merrill’s expression reveals nothing. She sips her tea and pointedly ignores his gaze. He’d hoped they’d come to some sort of impasse during the night about this Evanuris situation, but she’d shot down every attempt he made to bring it up. The only words she’d said during the entire burial process were a handful of prayers, ones that he’d numbly echoed.

“It’s hard to believe one of our own would be capable of such a thing,” Taelaran says.

“I’m so sorry,” Merrill says. “I think I may have been the one to upset her. I feel so horrible. I truly didn’t know this would happen.”

“It’s not your fault. This was not the first time she’s been so impulsive. No, I should not have brought here at all.” He swirls his finger around the rim of the teacup for a moment long enough that Nebel is sure would have humans stepping in to respond. But this is a Keeper, and Keepers speak as much through their silences as their words. “If her parents are watching now, I’m sure they’re cursing my name.”

“I’m sorry too. I wish you could have been the one to handle her,” Nebel says.

“I do as well. I trust it was an unavoidable choice,” Taelaran says, and the silence that follows speaks volumes of his displeasure. Eventually, he directs his attention to Shielan. “What will you do now, lethallan?”

“Stay hidden. I’m unsure, beyond that,” Shielan says, kneeling a posture so straight that Nebel can’t imagine holding it for more than a minute. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days. “I’ve asked around. I even checked the records. It seems that no one’s heard word from my clan in years.”

“They may be in hiding, just the same as you,” Merrill chimes in.

Shielan shrugs just one shoulder, thankfully outfitted in warmer, cleaner clothes than yesterday. “I’d like to hope so.”

“There’s room for you to join us, if you’d like. It’s the least we could do, after all of this,” Taelaran says.

The tent feels colder, like the flaps have opened to the wind. _That’s weird,_ Nebel thinks, unable to stop his hand from rising to touch his chest. He should be happy for her. He should feel relieved that she’s going to have a home to return to. It shouldn’t feel like someone’s digging around in his heart, searching for something that isn’t there.

“Oh, you could come with me too!” Merrill exclaims, then quickly tucks her hands back in her lap and looks sheepish. “Not that going with them isn’t a good idea. That would probably be more interesting than traveling with me. But I could always use help in the alienages.”

Shielan’s gaze passes over the three of them — oddly, she looks like might take off and run at any second. Tears well up in the corners of her eyes.

Taelaran rests a hand on her knee. “You don’t need to decide now, lethallan. But the invitation stands.”

Shielan tucks her face into her palms, but she doesn’t appear to be crying. For a minute, all she does is breathe: slow _ins_ and slower _outs._ Finally, her head rises. In her red eyes, there’s resolution.

“Thank you, Keeper, for your offer. That is incredibly kind,” Shielan begins. “But I don’t want to put your clan at risk. I think it would be easier for me to hide in a city. Make a fresh start. So, if you don’t mind, Merrill …”

Merrill clasps her hands together. “Of course! It will be nice to have some company along. It’s been so long since I traveled with another Dalish.”

“Wonderful,” Taelaran says. Nebel wonders if the smile on his face is from relief, but he wouldn’t dare ask. “Keep me informed of where your travels, and I will write to you if we hear of your clan.”

“Ma serannas, Keeper.”

The moment feels as fitting to be an ending as any other. Nebel avoids a vase of quills as he climbs to his feet. “Do you have a minute, Shielan? I’d like to speak with you.”

“Yes. Certainly.”

They both give Taelaran bows on their way out of the tent, though Shielan’s is deep and his is more of a deepening of his slouch. Nebel ignores Merrill’s frown.

They find an empty space in the clearing, close to the traders’ stalls, where the sounds of bartering and distant string melodies drown out any signs of Merrill or Taelaran’s voices. Nebel can’t think with a clear head when Merrill is nearby — he doesn’t know if it’s the memories of fire or if it’s her blood in him that makes his heart beat so fast around her. When Nebel is certain that no one’s about to approach them asking questions about the Inquisition, he passes Shielan the two hefty bags.

She looks at them like he’s thrust a strange creature into her hands, so he explains. He tells her the intricacies of each potion — what others herbs to avoid when taking the sleeping concoction, how to apply the concealer without streaks, how much of the healing potions to take for different injuries. She nods along with few questions, and it’s only once he stops speaking and sees her amused smile that he realizes he’s definitely spoken too long. He can’t help it. It’s rare he gets a chance to talk about apothecary work that isn’t focused on poisons, and his shocked nerves don’t help.

And then he gestures to the larger bag and tells her of Bull’s rushed scavenging for goods. She stares into the assortment of items with eyes that only get wider as she sorts through it. She and Nebel both break into laughter when she pulls out a hairbrush. It’s one of many tools Nebel wouldn’t have prioritized for a fugitive, but he hopes it brings her comfort, if not a small amount of coin.

“I’ll repay you, someday,” she says.

“Please don’t. I’m so tired of keeping track of debts. But feel free to contact me, if you need anything.”

“I will.” Nebel hopes that Merrill won’t turn out to be too much for her to keep up with, but he won’t be surprised if he gets a letter saying exactly that.

“And I’m sorry if we scared you at all,” he says. “I wish you hadn’t needed to watch that.”

“It’s okay. I’ve seen worse.”

Nebel can only guess what she’s referring to. He knows that the stories Dorian tells of the acts committed slaves are only a rosy fragment of the real atrocities. Her face is steeled against the memories, a blank expression that he imagines she’s had years to build up. But she doesn’t hide the anger in her eyes, and Nebel gets a sinking feeling in his stomach of what her future holds.

“Listen, this is — I don’t know how to say this, but … when you are traveling with Merrill, you may hear rumors of Fen’Harel. Or about the Veil, or the Evanuris, or something else along those lines,” Nebel says. “And you need to not listen to them. Trust me. Nothing good comes from what they say.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “Fen’Harel?”

“There’s a cult out there, worshipping him. They target people like you. Elves who are angry, at risk, vulnerable. If they approach you, don’t listen. You need to just get out of there.” The flutter of his heart reminds him not to say too much. She doesn’t need to know it all, just enough to keep her safe. “They think they can tear down the Veil. They very well might be able to.”

“Oh, I know.”

“You … what?”

Her face relaxes. “Yes, I’ve met those people. I was passing through Kirkwall and a city elf offered me a place to stay. That night, they told me all about it.” Her voice softens into a wistful whisper. “A plan to make things better, to take down the shemlen once and for all. Rebuild this into a world we can actually live it. I said no, at the time. I had no interest serving some new master.”

_Insidious bastard_. Nebel remembers the slow, painstaking way Solas would paint his walls, ensuring each stroke is perfect, and always assumed he’d follow through on this plan in a similar pace. But Solas is working faster than he thought, and Nebel can’t even gauge how far his stain has spread.

“Do you remember more about this person? Where in Kirkwall they lived? Their name?”

“No. I’m sorry. They didn’t want to give away any more of their identity than I did. And they were gone the next morning.”

Fuck. Of course they would be. An agent wouldn’t stick around, not after a failed recruitment. He’ll write Varric a warning once he has a chance, but he doubts the man will have any luck on so little information.

In the meantime, he has a more pressing matter to handle. “Shielan. Believe me. They don’t want to better this world. They only want to destroy it.”

She looks to the sky, then the trees, then down to the bag. Anywhere but Nebel’s face. “Would that be so bad?” She whispers, quiet enough that Nebel feels the need to lean in. “I’m bound to end up back there, whether it’s tonight, tomorrow, or years from now. Wouldn’t it be better not to have to live with that fear?”

_It would be_ , that obnoxious little part of himself says. No, he can’t rightfully tell her that the world is worth that pain, nor can he promise an end to the suffering within their lifetime.

“I can’t blame you for feeling that way. I get it. This world is pretty shit, isn’t it?” He manages a shaky smile. “But I believe it can get better. And in this new world of theirs, maybe the elves survive. But maybe not. Fen’Harel doesn’t have a great reputation of keeping his word. And either way, it’s too many people we’d need to lose.”

Shielan wipes the edges of her eyes with a scarred knuckle. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of that.”

“It’s alright.” He doubts he can convince her any further. “I hope you can escape them, for good. It’s not fair that you need to be on the run.”

“I’ll be fine.” She shuts her eyes and pulls her hands into her chest. “The Creators would never turn their eyes from the People. And I don’t know what they intend for me, or if I’ve maybe wronged them in some way, but … they kept me going, even through it all.”

“I’m glad you had that comfort,” he whispers, though the world feels like it may tip over at any second.

“They’re with you as well.” She looks at him with eyes open wide, bearing the same purple bags he knows are under his own, and takes his hand. “And as long as they watch over us, we’ll find a way.”

* * *

At every feast and celebration Nebel had endured at Skyhold, one point of action always came before all else: find Bull. Granted, he was never hard to spot, even on those nights when Josephine had packed the throne room to the brim with banquet tables and velvet-clad guests. Their eyes would meet across the hall, and Bull would give him a nod and a smirk, and then Nebel would continue on politely laughing at some nobles’ jokes about how strange his feet must feel to actually be wearing shoes.

When Nebel comes back to their campsite, Bull breaks his attention from the three elves he’s entertaining to give him that same look. Now, it doesn’t inspire that same confidence. He doesn’t need to run to Bull if he needs a moment to recharge. It’s just a greeting. Nothing more.

“I’ll see you later, alright?” Bull says to the elves. “And next time, I wanna hear more about these tattoo needles. Didn’t know they were so, uh — badass, compared to what I’m used to.”

The youngest elf whines in disappointment, refusing to leave until the eldest guides him away by the ear. They give Nebel brief nods on their way out. Word has been out two days now that there’s a Qunari in their midst, so it comes as no surprise that people want to come chat. As a younger man, he certainly would have also had questions. Probably a proposition too.

“Thinking of getting some vallaslin, Bull?”

“Nah. Wouldn’t work with these cheekbones.”

Nebel slumps down on the log across from Bull. Bull’s grin shifts to a frown, and his shoulders fall, mirroring Nebel’s mood as usual.

“I like yours, you know,” Bull says. “But Fenris is right. You can’t hide very well with them.”

“They live up to their true purpose then.”

“That’s not what they are anymore.” Bull’s eye shifts in tiny movements, never leaving Nebel’s face. “They’re a sign of your strength. The furnace you were forged in.”

With his eyes closed, Nebel can nearly feel Bull’s thumbs trailing across his cheekbones, up over his brow, down over his lips, like the memories themselves are cold, spectral fingers. He allows himself one last moment in that peace before he speaks.

“Bull. When you left, after the Dreadnaught … you were scared, weren’t you?”

Any serenity left on Bull’s face vanishes. “Er — where’s this coming from?”

“You only had the Chargers left. The Inquisition. And you were willing to do anything to keep that.” Nebel tries to catch Bull’s eye, but Bull avoids it entirely. “Even if it meant lying to us. Hurting us.”

Bull looks like he’d much rather get up and find those elves again. He stays anyway. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You did, though. And I’m not saying that’s okay,” Nebel says. “But you were scared. How could you not be? Your world fell apart.”

“Think you’re giving me too much credit there.”

“I could be. You give me too much credit all the time.”

“Agree to disagree.” Bull crosses his arms like he always does when a contact gets too cagey. “What are you getting at?”

Nebel doesn’t need to explain it to him; habit is the only reason he’s found himself here at all, watching Bull’s face for minuscule reactions like he’s a dowsing stone for just how bad of an idea this is.

He finds himself speaking anyways. “This sort of thing, it leaves a … a void. And we all just end up filling it with whatever we can reach.” There’s no one else around, but Nebel still drops his voice to a whisper. “When I lost my ear, I did some awful things. Seriously, I was a nightmare. Did you know I broke up a fucking marriage?”

“I pieced that together, yeah.”

“I just didn’t want to think about it. I felt like shit inside, and I wanted to be treated that way too. And after my clan, after the palace, I — “ He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m still figuring that out.”

“I get what you’re sayin’. But this ain’t the same as what you went through.”

“Isn’t it? Look at Ghilanna. She tried to sell one of us off after Merrill told her about the Evanuris. And if Solas breaks that news with one breath and offers the first sign of hope with the next — “

“Not everyone’s gonna turn to mass murder just ‘cause of that.”

“No. Not everybody. But he’s going to aim for the hurt, the alienated. The scared. And he only needs a few to make a difference.” Nebel wants to believe that if Solas had come to him ten years ago, back when his wounds were still fresh from what that human had done, he would have told the ancient elf to fuck right on off. But he knows the truth: he’d be there beside Solas, eager to fight for the destruction of this world even more so than the creation of a new one. He swallows down that secret and continues, “But it doesn’t need to be that way. If we change the way they hear it, if they have time to heal, a community to support them — “

“If you open the wound with a clean knife?”

Nebel nods, then stands and laughs under his breath. Of all the times, now is when he feels the urge to pray. “I have something I need to do.”


	11. Chapter 11

“You ever turn over a rock and see one of those little pill bugs curled in a ball? And before you even have time to feel bad for wakin’ it up, it skitters off to Maker-knows-where?” Hawke mimics the motion of an insect rolling up and then stretching its arms high above its head. “Lavellan kinda reminds me of that.”

“At least Anders stuck around after setting off his bomb,” Fenris says.

Merrill doesn’t appear to have heard either of them. With the intense determination of someone donning their armor for a particularly intense battle, she stares at the empty platform where Lavellan had stood minutes before and says nothing.

_They were not gods. They were elves, just like us, who grew corrupt at the first taste of power._

Lavellan hadn’t given his entrance much fanfare, not even bothering with the gong, so there hadn’t been time for a crowd to form. But by the end of his first few sentences, no one in the scattered groups of the ceremony grounds and trading stalls were moving. No one except for the three misfits from Kirkwall, who Fenris had rushed over to the same hidden area behind the platform he’d eavesdropped from already once before.

The speech ended. Then, as quickly as he’d arrived, Lavellan had disappeared, pushing past them silently, looking like he’d just seen the innards of the Fade.

Fenris scans the grounds. Confused faces give way to whispers, to clasped hands, to scornful jokes and reddened cheeks.

_We’ve misremembered history. Our vallaslin were the markings of slaves._

“Hawke. I have a bad feeling about this,” he says, glancing at Hawke and the cringe his beard can’t hide. “Perhaps you should — “

“Yeah, yeah, I know this dance by now. I’ll be at camp, holler if you need a human.”

Guilt has only enough time to settle in his stomach before Fenris hears a sob from the distance. He looks now to Merrill, who he’d believe to be frozen by some mage’s doing if not for the hair hanging around her face that flutters like a leaf the wind can’t quite lift from the ground.

“What now?” he asks.

She opens her eyes. Calm and collected, unaffected by the shouts picking up around them, she says, “We pick up the pieces.”

_We destroyed ourselves once, but we cannot let it happen again. Our gods might not be real, but the Dread Wolf is._

Merrill leads. They follow the sounds of crying, of fighting, of people asking questions as the denial peels away. There’s laughter too. Some return to their business like nothing is amiss. Others react to the two of them with fear and anger — _traitor_ , he realizes she’s being called in their tongue — until they see that she comes bearing answers to the gaps that Lavellan left behind. Merrill explains, and Fenris talks down the fights and hysterics that spread through the clearing like a plague.

“Our culture is still ours,” Merrill says, hand on the shoulder of a confused mage. “It’s something precious, beautiful. We don’t need to give up on our way of life.” Fenris stands a few feet back, arms crossed as he surveys the area for both outraged elves and anyone too calm for the situation. He imagines an agent doing largely the same as what they’re doing — moving from group to group, looking for fresh wounds. As of yet, he sees no one else following their lead.

He does not feel sympathy, per se; a part of him reacts, instinctively, to the tears and panic with concern, but he can’t shake the thought that they’ve finally gotten what they deserved. Lacing their identity with the idea that they’re better than the rest of the elves was bound to come crumbling down eventually.

Merrill rubs the back of a woman who clings to her tome and quills like it’s her last possession in the world. “It’s alright, you can cry if you’d like. Here, take this — no, keep it, really.” Merrill smiles, softly, even as two of the other elves nearby eye her as a threat. “You don’t need to worry. Our jobs are not done; the truth will push us forward, just down a different direction.”

_That anger you’re feeling? Don’t let Fen’Harel turn it against the world. Use it, wield it as your weapon — but don’t fall for his tricks._

Merrill stands, lifting her hands from where they had laid folded on her chest. She bids farewell to a group as they continue the prayer without her, speaking in a dissonant unison.

“Why do you still bother to praying with them?” he asks.

Merrill gives a quiet hum. Fenris recognizes it as one of the songs he’d heard sung on the first night, though it sounds more solemn without the backing of drums. “The act of prayer itself is a ritual,” she says, not looking to him. “It centers us. It connects us, when other words can’t. It doesn’t matter, really, if we’re the only ones hearing it.”

_If he comes to you, run._

As Merrill walks ahead, speeding towards a man who’s begun to scream at nothing but the sky, a woman steps into Fenris’s path. Her staff is a polished and ornate thing with some gaudy gem held between three carved twists of wood, and it looks like she’d fall straight over without it to hold her weight. She cracks each knuckle against the wood in a slow, never-ending cycle.

“Hello, young flat-ear,” she says through a welcoming smile and the deep tones of someone used to authority.

“I am rarely called young anymore,” he responds. He waits for her to make a quip about her own gray hair. If he’s lucky, she’ll take offense.

“Then I assume you spend little time around the People. You would be the greenest child in more than one of these clans,” she says instead, chuckling. “How are you faring with your illness?”

Right. He’d managed to forget, somehow, that the only reason people weren’t kicking either of them out was the pitiful lie Hawke had concocted. “It’s fine.”

“Ah, that’s splendid. How good to hear.” Her smile is unbreakable. It looks like the corners of her mouth have been pinned to her cheeks. “Then will you and your husband be taking your leave soon?”

_Ah._ So that’s what this is. How duplicitous. With these fresh tensions, their leeway must be reaching its limits. “Am I not welcome? This is a celebration of elven culture, is it not?”

“This is a celebration, yes. But it is also an escape,” she says, the warmth never dropping from her expression, though not a shred of it reaches her voice. “Every elf here has been affected by the humans. If not personally, then through the troubles of their clan. And here, once a decade, we have the space to speak of what’s been done to us — without uninvited ears.”

Fenris rolls his eyes once, then again for good measure. He’s never let _uninvited ears_ stop him from speaking his mind in front of mages. “Hawke has no interest in hurting anyone,” he says, because under all that phony hospitality, that’s what she’s truly getting at.

“It requires no interest in hurting to do so,” she says. “I will not tell you to leave. But I ask that you keep him from the ceremony grounds. And it would be wise for you to follow that advice as well.”

“Is it against elven tradition to ever say what you mean?”

He doesn’t succeed in breaking her grin. She turns, waving her staff in either farewell or the beginnings of some spell he can’t perceive. “May the Creators watch over you,” she says over her shoulder.

For a second, he considers calling after her. She’s the first of the elders here to acknowledge him, and in theory, she may know something of ancient lyrium rituals. But what’s the point? She wouldn’t bother helping him. Why would she? Why would anyone here see him as any more than a bug that crawled in from a gap in the floorboards? It doesn’t matter that he spent the morning trying to help, nor that he spent the night battling the slavers lying in wait at the tavern.

Fenris flips up his hood and kicks at the dirt, swearing in every language he knows. If the Maker gave any shits about him, he would’ve been born as one of these elves. How nice for his greatest concern to be whether or not his gods are real. But perhaps that woman was right, even if her reasoning was not. He’s bound to meet the Maker soon, and if his compliance with Solas causes unforgivable damage, that’s one less sin he’ll need to justify. How is he supposed to explain away how he helped a maniac bring death upon this world? Because he thought he could thwart him in the end? Because he was kept in the dark about the details? Because he wanted more time in this world with the man he loves, and he somehow deserves that after the life he’s lived?

He presses his forehead to the bark of a tree. Bangs it, once, just for the sake of the sting, then lets it rest as he considers how any sane person would view his options. A beetle crawls across his hand, and as he flicks it into the dirt, he hears footsteps to his right. Another visitor. Wonderful. He knows who he’ll see if he lifts his gaze — by now, he recognizes the distinct, irregular sound of these steps. One foot lands quick and firm, while the right settles into the ground with a gentler touch and lifts with a soft creak from a well-worn knee.

"Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun,” Fenris says, only looking up when the last syllable has come through his teeth.

Iron Bull is caught mid-wave, the friendliness in his expression souring as he digests the words. Good. Fenris has no patience for this veneer of amicability that the man uses to lure everyone else into his traps. He’d rather Iron Bull know that Fenris is aware of exactly who he’s serving.

“Didn’t know you spoke,” Iron Bull says.

“Really? It seems that Lavellan knows a great deal of the details of my life,” Fenris says. “Not a big fan of Varric’s drivel, are you?”

“Eh. Not the true stories. I’d rather make up my mind about people myself.” Iron Bull dips the left side of his face forward and blinks his eye — after a second, Fenris realizes it’s meant to be a wink. “Mostly just skip to the smutty scenes.”

Fenris scowls. He will never forgive Varric for implying anything of the sort between him and Hawke, regardless of its uncanny resemblance to the truth. Iron Bull laughs and, unfortunately, continues, “So, how’d you pick it up? Spend some time in Seheron?”

“Yes. Forgive my accent. The Fog Warriors warned me they have some distinctive vocabulary.”

“Ah. Fog Warriors, huh?” Iron Bull’s discomfort is like a morsel of warm bread spread with butter. Delightful.

“Indeed. Did you ever encounter one named Meraad, by any chance? A kind man. And your people were in turn kind enough to return him to us after you’d finished questioning him.” Fenris plants his pause with care, giving it room to flourish. “Except it seemed he was missing a few vital organs, and you’d forgotten to stitch him back up afterwards.”

The words should further Iron Bull’s unease, perhaps even stir up the beginnings of remorse if he’s capable of that. But instead, Iron Bull’s tension relaxes out of his bare shoulders, and the gaze that had drifted to the side snaps back to Fenris’s own face.

“I wasn’t involved. But yeah. I _do_ recognize that name. He was from that cell west of Alam, right? The one we found slaughtered by one heck of a broadsword?” Iron Bull glances up to the sword on Fenris’s back. _No, it hadn’t been that one._ Danarius had brought him a new weapon when he’d found him in Seheron, one with the sharp edge of a blade that’s never known flesh. “You know, the heart we found on the ground does make more sense now.”

“Watch your words, Iron Bull.”

There’s calculated malice in each of Iron Bull’s grins. It doesn’t matter if they’re supposed to be playful or smug or friendly; all of them are only different colorful, ornate vessels meant to distract from the poison they hold. The one he wears now is like a wine glass on a thin, long stem — unassuming, subdued, breakable. “You can just call me Bull, you know,” he says.

“I decline your invitation.”

“Suit yourself. I like knowing you spend double the time on my name. Makes a man feel real special.”

“Enough,” Fenris says. “What is it that you want?”

“Had a question for you.” Iron Bull pauses and looks down at Fenris, like he’s expecting some form of permission. Fenris doesn’t give it, but he keeps speaking anyway. “Doesn’t it strike you as a bit _odd_ that you’d see me and Nebel fighting someone and immediately take the other person’s side?”

“No. It’s not odd at all to think a Ben-Hassrath would be capturing an innocent woman.”

Iron Bull’s face lights up, like Fenris has provided the spy with his last piece of necessary intel. “Oh, so _you’re_ the one who put this idea in Merrill’s head. Wondered why she thought I was still with the Qun.”

“She came to her own conclusions.”

“And I’m sure no one gave her a little push into them. Anyways. Let’s say that _is_ what I was doing. Why the hell would Nebel be helping me?”

“That dense idiot obeys your every order without question. The finger you’ve got him wrapped around is the only thing keeping him upright.” Fenris could leave it at that, but he wants to make it clear that his hostility towards Iron Bull isn’t born of any sympathy towards his sulking boyfriend. “Did you know he claims to have voices in his head? That the ancient elves speak with him directly? I’d keep your eye on that, unless you want another Chantry-bomber on your hands.”

Iron Bull’s jaw shifts around like he’s got something stuck in his teeth. “That’s … complicated. He’s a smart man, though. Smart enough to know a Tal-Vashoth when he sees one. We don’t all need to chop off our horns to prove it.”

“Perhaps you should.” Fenris traces his eyes over the man’s absurdly long horns. “You may learn something from experiencing the pain you’ve inflicted on others, for once.”

“Come on. I’m the last Qunari they’d wanna deploy out here. You think they don’t have elves they could’ve sent instead? Plenty of them even got the tattoos.”

“And did they? Do you have comrades here? Have they been eyeing _my_ tattoos, fantasizing about sewing my lips shut and having fun with their new weapon?”

“Jeez, you’re stubborn. Why are you so determined about this?”

Fenris considers his answer. From Varric and Hawke’s tales, he’d believed the Iron Bull to be as spineless as the Inquisitor, jumping to whichever side was most likely to guarantee his survival. But he’d believed him to be Tal-Vashoth, even if that didn’t atone for any of his past crimes. The moment he’d changed his mind had come the first night, sometime during his confession to Merrill.

When he realizes what that moment had been, Fenris sees Iron Bull differently: he’s not the infallible spy that he pretends to be. He’s just a parasite, making a mockery of emotions and love to continue sucking the life out of the meatiest thing around. Fenris looks up at the Iron Bull and knows he’s staring down a man both smaller and more fragile than he or Hawke or Merrill will ever be.

“Because I don’t see how else you could tell these lies for so long to someone you claim to care about,” Fenris begins. “I’ve got my issues. Hawke does too. But neither of us could ever imagine hurting the other like that. And maybe you are Tal-Vashoth. Does it make a difference? You only left once the Qun became inconvenient for you. You weren’t a slave. You knew exactly what the outside world looked like. Did they have to erase your memories to make you nice and docile as well? Or did you willingly subject yourself to their brainwashing?”

Iron Bull’s fingers begin idly playing with that giant tooth he wears around his neck. It does nothing to intimidate Fenris; he’s faced the same crushing jaw of a dragon and walked out on the other side alive as well. Iron Bull can fiddle with his battle trophy all he wants, but that little reminder of his war prowess is far from enough to make Fenris back down.

“Ever try getting beat with a stick?” Iron Bull asks. “Might help with all that pain.”

“It wasn’t often a stick, no.”

Fenris knows he’s won the argument, but it feels like he’s dragged a man through the mud only to look down and realize half of him has been stained with sludge. This is ridiculous. He doesn’t have the patience or time for — for _any_ of this. This isn’t a worthwhile use of the scant amount of time he has left. Let Merrill handle the Dalish who want him gone. Let Lavellan deal with the Ben-Hassrath he’s leashed himself to. If Solas knows how to cure him, surely someone else does as well. Someone who won’t string him along with cryptic riddles.

They’re leaving.

The decision feels less like a shedding of armor and more like the tying of a noose.

Fenris can deal with that later. He turns his back on the Iron Bull, knowing he only has the few minutes before he’s back at camp to figure out how he can possibly tell Hawke any of this. He’ll understand, in time.

“Hey, hold up — “ Iron Bull’s fingers brush his shoulder, and Fenris sees red. He spins on his heel and swings his elbow to knock away the man’s arm.

“Do _not_ touch me.” Fenris slides his sword an inch out of its sheath — his go-to threat. Few people are stupid enough to push him any further beyond that.

“Whoa! Easy there.” With the absurd range of his arm and his vast amount of stupidity, Iron Bull doesn’t need to be fast to snatch Fenris’s wrist and wrench it away from the hilt. The sword falls back into the the sheath with a _clink,_ and that’s it. That’s enough. Iron Bull doesn’t deserve the kindness Fenris has afforded him.

Fenris’s hand disappears into an outline of mist and light, and through it he sees Iron Bull’s eye widen as his fist suddenly closes around the space where Fenris’s wrist had been. Fenris settles his hand over Iron Bull’s chest, resting it with flayed fingers on the pointless boundary of his skin.

“Last time I hesitated,” Fenris says. A twitch of his index finger, only enough to feel where the flesh gives way to softer tissue, and Iron Bull’s throat is bobbing. “Don’t assume I will again.”

Intimidating the Iron Bull may not have been the best decision, Fenris realizes as he’s thrown back by two giant hands. Even more so when the man is one of the only souls in Thedas who’s felt a fist around his heart and lived through the experience.

Iron Bull yells something a second before Fenris’s stumbling feet catch the edge of a root and he falls back with red still in the corners of his gaze. He’s awake long enough to feel the pain of his head hitting something hard, and then he feels nothing at all.

* * *

The bad news is that he’s in Danarius’s study, holding a tray of porcelain cups and wearing only a pair of satin trousers. The good news is that he’s dreaming.

Fenris drops the tray. The cups shatter into hundreds of pieces, slicing through both the golden embroidery of the rug and what’s exposed of his ankles. A blink, and he’s wearing his armor — heavy, well-worn, and nothing at all like the soft caress of satin. It’s a momentary comfort, but he can’t let down his guard. Someone else is in this mahogany prison, watching his every move. He knows this in the way one knows anything in a dream: instinctively, unquestionably, and born of some twisted logic that will come undone in the waking world. If he’s lucky, it will be Danarius. This week has been rather stressful; killing him again will be a welcome release. Fenris imagines the click of the door and the clearing of a throat, but they never come into being.

What a waste of a lucid dream.

At the end of an eye roll, Fenris’s gaze catches on a black figurine on the fireplace’s mantle — a statuette of a wolf cub, the one Danarius liked to watch him scrub until his fingers bled for some greater literary irony, and he suddenly knows who’s been lurking in the shadows.

“Show yourself, Solas,” he says.

Solas doesn’t use the door. He simply appears, sitting primly on one of the velvet lounging sofas with his hands folded over crossed knees. “Good evening,” he says as he looks around the room, sniffing once. Nothing in the study draws Solas’s attention for long. It can’t be all that different from the rooms in his glorious elven empire, the chain and cuffs in the corner included.

“Have you been waiting in my dreams every night? I’m flattered,” Fenris says.

“No, certainly not. I do, in fact, have important matters elsewhere.” Not important enough that he can’t spare some time to admire the embroidery of one of Danarius’s throw pillows, apparently. Solas sets down the cushion and tilts his head, smiling like a healer welcoming a patient. “But I believe I’ve sensed some misgivings from you.”

_Sensed_. If Solas means anything other than a report from his agent, then Fenris will ensure the man can never sense another thing in his damn life. Has Solas somehow seen into his thoughts? It’s not unreasonable. If Solas can intrude on his dreams, who’s to say he can’t find his way into deeper, more private spaces?

“How do you know that?” Fenris asks.

“You’d do well to take better care of yourself. Slamming your head into trees is something I’d expect from Lavellan, not you.”

_Interesting_. So not even the Inquisitor’s inner circle was all that fond of him. Fenris would love to pry Solas for more details on what must by now be a rather strained relationship, but he does have more pressing matters at hand.

“Shielan wasn’t your agent,” Fenris says more than he asks.

“No,” Solas confirms. “Unfortunately, your expertise is still needed.”

“Then who is it?”

Solas says nothing, because of course he wouldn’t. In his palm, the wolf statuette materializes, plucked from its perch on the mantle with only a wisp of black smoke left behind. He takes on the air of a stingy appraiser as he turns it in his fingers, thumbnails running through each etched crease of fur as if there could possibly be a speck of dust remaining. His eyebrows raise only a hair when the figurine vanishes from his hand, disappearing from the room completely.

This is Fenris’s dream, after all.

“Give me the details,” he demands. “Or I’m leaving.”

The doors open. Outside is not the hallway decked in gold and purple tapestries over mahogany stair rails, but a pane of light that shimmers in every color imaginable, like glass facing the sun after a downpour of rain. Merrill would likely call it _lovely_. To Fenris, it could only be described as heinous.

“Come with me.” Solas approaches the door, waving Fenris along behind him. “I have something you may wish to see.”

Fenris follows only because the room begins to crumble into nothingness, and he’d rather not be included in that.

The smell of mold hits him before the rest of his senses have time to catch up. He steps into a hallway made of silverite stone on all sides. It’s damp. Angry red lanterns shine in a dim line down the length of the ceiling. Liquid falls from the lights’ metal cages in a rhythm that could drive anyone to insanity: two _plinks_ here, silence, _plink,_ silence, _plink plink plink plink plink —_

Fenris fills his lungs with stale air. This feels like a place for blood magic. All it’s missing is a sacrificial altar. It’s even got a smug mage ready to facilitate: Solas stands at the end of the hallway, back to Fenris, boney fingers tracing the curled carvings of the double door that stretches from floor to ceiling.

“Where are we?” Fenris asks, glancing over his shoulder. The other side of the hallway ends in an identical door, and there’s nothing to see on the walls other than the condensation that slides down them and gathers in pools on the floor, shimmering the same red of the lights. Fenris pauses and peers down at one of the larger puddles, wanting to ensure — no, it’s not blood. But while the water reflects the light and the stone, Fenris sees no trace of himself in its surface.

With the hair on his neck standing on end, Fenris walks to the door. Every step on the cobbled stone echos through the chamber. For as strong as the scent of the mold may be, there’s not a single crack in any of the stones, nor any gaps where the bricks meet. A yard behind Solas, he stops and folds his arms over his chest.

Solas’s hand lingers on the carvings of the door like he’s loathe to pull them away. He sighs as he finally does, then turns and stretches out his arm until his fingertips brush the silverite of the wall beside him.

The stone shivers. Fenris steps away until his back is nearly against the opposite wall, then thinks better of allowing any part of him to touch the supposedly animate confines of this place. With Solas’s palm pressed to the bricks, a section of the stone pulses and then fades, revealing an opening to room only as wide as Fenris’s arm-span. Its walls are the same deep gray of the hall, and it has no light of its own. Its interior is only visible by the few red beams that aren’t blocked by Solas’s shadow.

Solas makes no move to enter, and it’s only when his hand begins to slide downward that Fenris realizes that it’s not an opening at all. A barrier of magic walls off the room, clear as a pane of glass but covered with a scattering of unreadable, pulsing runes.

“Look,” Solas says, a pointless demand; Fenris’s feet are already drawing him closer. The room isn’t truly empty, Fenris sees as he squints at the shadow in the corner. It’s about as tall as his knees, as wide as a barrel. Unmoving. And with a final step towards the barrier, Fenris realizes where exactly he is.

It’s a cell. This is a prison, where the captives aren’t even worthy of being seen.

A man huddles in the corner, forehead pressed against the stone, curled into a ball so tight that Fenris feels the strain in his own vertebrae. He’s dressed in scraps of clothing that look to have once been expensive robes, made of a fabric that thicker than any leather and softer than any silk Fenris has ever seen. Solas says something in Elvish. The man’s head whips around, mangled hair thrown over his shoulder, and Fenris falls backwards to the ground.

The prisoner has no eyes, only dark sockets and rows of scratches that fan out around them, scars swollen and violet like wounds never cleaned before they healed. His nails dig into his knees, where similar scars run up and down his skin through the torn cloth of his robes. He sniffs, once, what’s left of his brows raising as he turns his shoulders to face them.

There’s a shimmer across his forehead. Silver tattoos trail his cheeks to his chin and disappear down his neck.

“What is this?” Fenris yells. The man sniffs one more time, then presses his face back into the stone as if he’s heard nothing at all.

“The natural end to a practice this horrific.” Solas doesn’t move his eyes from where the man should have his own. “He was uncooperative. They will harvest the lyrium from him soon.” The runes shine white where Solas’s fingertips brush them. Fenris climbs to his feet, willing his breathing to slow. “I visited him in the midst of my war. I don’t know that he understood, or if he was already too far gone. But I swore to him: I would ensure this never happened to another elf again, for as long as I may live.”

Solas’s hand falls to his side, and the man is gone, hidden behind stones that blend into the others without even a stutter. Solas turns to Fenris and whispers, “I failed him. I’m sorry.”

It sounds genuine enough. Perhaps it is. But Danarius and Hadriana could both prostrate at his feet, begging for forgiveness until their throats were raw, and Fenris would feel nothing at the sight. So: “Why would your apology mean anything to me? I still won’t help you.”

He understands what Solas intends by bringing him here. But Fenris has seen things more gruesome than this in dungeons that haven’t yet been lost to time, and if this is what awaits him — well. Fenris would never let himself live to such a state.

Solas eyes Fenris like he’s a magister’s test specimen that hasn’t proved his theories correct. Then he looks to the door, and for a moment, the slow drip of water is the only sound in the prison. “I understand,” Solas finally says. “You have attachments to this world. I’ve fallen prey to that mistake as well. What if I can make my offer more enticing?”

Hands clasped behind his back, Solas faces Fenris once again, and it has to be a trick of the dream that the lights seem dimmer on the walls while they reflect brighter in his eyes. With the faintest hint of a smile, Solas says, “Garrett Hawke.”

“What?” It’s wrong to hear that name in this place that’s too much like his past life, a name that represents light and gold and sea stuck in this tunnel that has Fenris waiting to be grabbed and thrown into one of these cells himself.

“When the time comes, I will save him,” Solas says. “I’m afraid that without my intervention, he will not survive.”

“No one would need saving if you weren’t _intervening_ in the first place.”

“Protect my agents. Be freed of your markings. And when this world perishes, know that he is safe.”

“Hawke won’t be your slave.” Hawke can’t end up here, Hawke is too good for that, too bright, and he’s strong but this place would surely break him —

“I would never,” Solas says, louder and more affronted than Fenris has ever heard him. “Do not forget how all of this started. Do not forget the origin of this fight.” Solas shuts his eyes and exhales a slow breath through his nose, then says in the calm voice Fenris has grown used to, “No. In the world that’s waiting, such a vile thing will be nothing more than a tale from history.”

It’s … an interesting proposition. Perhaps his cultists believe that they’re bound for glory in Solas’s new world, but Fenris finds the lack of any concrete answers about what’s waiting for them all to be an answer in itself. Fenris doubts that he himself will have a place in this new world; he knows that Hawke will not. And while Fenris would like to believe in the war effort that the remnants of the Inquisition have supposedly been stitching together, Fenris puts no faith in the outcome of any battle he isn’t personally fighting. The only reason the Inquisition succeeded in the first place was because Hawke had run off to save it.

“You wouldn’t do anything to — _change_ him, would you?” Fenris asks, though even he’s not fully sure what he means. The thought of Hawke somehow being _not_ Hawke is a worse nightmare than anything in this dungeon, and Fenris wouldn’t forgive himself if Solas turned Hawke into a mage or an elf or, far worse, a proper gentleman.

“Nothing of the sort. I may not understand your attachment to that man. But I can keep him safe, just as I would any other of my companions,” Solas says, his voice softening while Fenris keeps searching for answers in the water gathered between the stone.

There are fates worse than death, certainly. But with how strongly Solas had reacted to even the notion of slavery, Fenris doesn’t suspect that’s what would await Hawke. He might end up stuck in a world full of stuffy elves who worship Solas as some kind of god, but Hawke can thrive nearly anywhere, finding happiness and mischief in the least likely places. Maybe Fenris will be there as well. Maybe he’ll be scrounging for food in the ruins of this world. Most likely, he’ll be in the Maker’s hand.

Ideally, it will never come to that. But while Hawke takes care of dreaming up schemes for the best case scenarios, Fenris has always been behind him, ensuring that they still make it out alive even when everything falls apart.

“If you hurt him, I will destroy you,” Fenris says.

“I am sure that you will. May I take that as an agreement?”

For as still as Fenris has willed his body to be, even as his heart pounds and his lungs take in only shallow breaths of mildew, he can’t stop his fists from clenching. “Fine.”

“I thought so.” Fenris looks up, and Solas is grinning while the door behind him creaks open, filling the hallway with a blinding beam of light. “Then until our next meeting, stay well, friend.”

“I’m not your — “

* * *

“Friend.”

Fenris wakes inside a tent with tears at the corners and stains across the expanse of it like a map of the stars — that is, if all the celestial bodies and beings were made of splashes of blood and dirt and remnants of food left on hands that Hawke couldn’t be bothered to pull out a handkerchief to deal with.

Hawke chuckles. “Yeah, pretty sure we’re more than _friends_ at this point.”

He scowls. Hawke is leaning over him, twisting the hairs of his beard, looking like an instrument strung so tight its neck may snap. The sun had been high and golden when Fenris had thrown blows with the Iron Bull; the light coming through the holes in the tent is now a morose gray. Fenris’s head still aches from the impact and his knuckles throb like they’ve been clenched for hours, but the smile on Hawke’s face when he finally meets his eyes does an unreasonably decent job of dulling the pain. When Hawke had heard he’d passed out, he must have dropped everything, rushing over as he always does, likely expecting the worst considering the state of Fenris’s health these days —

Wait. How would Iron Bull have gotten the message to Hawke? Would he have flagged down a random passerby? No, he certainly would have predicted the reaction that any Dalish elf would have to the sight of a Qunari and a bruised, unconscious elf.

“He carried me here,” Fenris says, annoyed and embarrassed at the very thought of it.

“Yup,” Hawke says. “Said he’s sorry for touching you. Also some stuff about how it’s rude to stick your hand in people without asking, but I think he’s just a prude.”

Great. If the Iron Bull expects any gratitude, he will be sorely mistaken. Hawke watches him with patience and questions in the dimpled corners of his soft grin. He must expect an explanation for how exactly Fenris ended up in a fight with the Qunari. Maybe he’s hoping Fenris found the agent and fought Iron Bull over them, carving a path to an end to all of this.

Fenris can’t very well tell him that only moments before passing out, he’d been trying to come up with a way to tell Hawke he wanted to leave this place. Nor can he tell him the reason he’d decided to stay; after all, Fenris had only bargained for the ensured safety of a single person. Hawke’s not going to like the idea of a world with only one of them left alive.

Hawke expects answers. Fenris can’t get the image of empty holes and clawmarks out of his head. There’s an easy enough solution to both problems: “Would you care for a drink?”

Hawke frowns. “Are you sure? It’s, er — it’s been a while.”

“Are you going to tell me not to?”

Hawke is quick to say, “No.”

“Then you may join me, if you help find some damn alcohol in this place.”

They find more than _some_.

“You know what I can’t stop wonderin’ about?” Hawke asks, voice slurred with a bottle’s worth of the fruity Dalish ale.

“What?”

“How do those two … I mean, you and I already have trouble sometimes.” Hawke makes an unintelligible gesture with both hands. It looks like he’s imitating a malfunctioning windmill.

“Excuse me?”

“Never-mind.” There’s a secret in Hawke’s smile as retrieves the bow from the patch of grass where Fenris had discarded it after his last shot had fallen pathetically short.

Fenris doesn’t care enough to push the subject, so he returns to his pot of red warpaint — Hawke’s warpaint, actually, though he’s always said Fenris is _more than welcome to it_ and _seriously, help yourself, that would be so badass_ — giving it one final stir before he dips the nail of his little finger into its depths.

He pauses, fingertip poised over the inside of his wrist — _kaffas_. How much of a mess is his brain that he didn’t think to figure this part out beforehand? The warpaint is already hardening into a shell on his nail and his wrist is still bare. But in the end, the specifics don’t much matter, so he goes with the first thing he thinks of and begins to trace the letters across his skin.

“What’re you writing?” Hawke asks, leaning over Fenris’s shoulder as he twirls an arrow.

Fenris’s finger stutters at the sound, forming a small crescent in the tail of the final letter. Fenris resists the urge to hide his wrist and the clumsy scrawl on it from the man who taught him those letters in the first place. “A reminder,” he mutters, hoping his face isn’t as red as the paint as he twists its cap shut.

If he can’t stop his mind from wandering back to Tevinter, he can at least give it a foothold back to reality.

“Oh, I know that feeling. Never could keep straight who wanted what bullshit back in Kirkwall.” Hawke’s vowels jumble together, both from the alcohol and the arrow he clenches between his teeth. “Had to start takin’ notes too after delivering twenty wolf pelts to the woman who wanted her dead husband’s ring back.”

“Twenty wolf pelts is a better mourning gift.”

“I know, right? She didn’t think so.”

Hawke takes his shot, prepping the arrow with the finesse of an expert and sending flying with the skill of a drunkard. It sails in a high arc over the bottles and lands somewhere in the branches of a tree with a dull thunk. Hawke mumbles something about it the _dang lake winds_ as he tosses Fenris the bow. Fenris plucks an arrow from the dwindling pile — he has no desire to go collect the arrows, not when the stretch of land between them and the log keeps changing its mind about how long it wants to be — and he lets it loose without much care for aim. It lacks no power but misses by a yard, disappearing into the darkness beyond the firelight’s reach.

“It seemed the entire population of Kirkwall was lined up to shuck their dirty work onto us. Nothing’s changed, I suppose.” Fenris drops the bow into Hawke’s hands. “Your turn.”

The pile of arrows lies ignored as Hawke walks past it; the bow ends up hanging from a tree-branch as Hawke deposits it like a coat on a hook. Hawke picks up one of the target bottles — decent liquor overall, but not worth the hefty sum of coin it cost them — and turns it over, examining the peeling label of the wine that originally lived in it, mismatched with the rest of them. Hawke lifts the bottle as if to read the faded label by the moonlight, and Fenris has a second to wonder just what is so interesting about this liquor before Hawke smashes the glass down on the log, sending shards flying with a _crunch._

Fenris laughs only once he’s ascertained that none of the glass has embedded itself in Hawke. “That’s against the rules.”

Hawke flashes two rows of purple-stained teeth at him. “What rules?”

Fenris returns the smile, even if his own can’t reach that level of mischief. By this point, there’s only five bottles — or eight, depending on how tightly Fenris squints — left waiting patiently for their turn to be smashed. Most of them were already empty by the time they’d gathered them, but — how many, exactly? He gives up on remembering the answer just as he accepts the truth that the next arrow is more likely to end up in his eye than in the neck of any of the glass.

He gravitates to the fire and finds a glassless place to sit, knees pulled up to his chest. Hawke follows his lead, attempting to peel off his outer layers in the same movement as sitting. Fenris grabs Hawke’s calf to keep him from tripping over his own feet and landing in the flames. Hawke eventually gets his clothing in a pile and his legs safely on the ground.

“Think Merrill’s doing alright?” Hawke asks, scooting closer to Fenris until their sides brush, as if he’s looking to replace the warmth he’d just willingly shed. “Haven’t seen her since — well, since Lavellan did his thing.”

“She’s capable of taking care of herself.”

Hawke sways away from Fenris, then collides back into him with a hefty nudge against his shoulder. “She asks about you in her letters, you know.”

“I’m sure she also asks about the worms in the garden.”

Hawke hums a dissatisfied note, clearly wanting to say more, clearly not going to. He makes no effort to dampen the volume of his sigh as he stretches out his feet, wiggling his toes even closer to the fire than Fenris dares to get. “Speaking of: after all this mess is over, did you still wanna head back to the Estate?” Hawke is ever the master of swinging the topic away from anything uncomfortable. “And then, uh … oh! You mentioned Nevarra next, right? I sure could go for some of those mini curry buns.”

“Yes. Nevarra,” Fenris says, shutting his eyes and wishing he was under heat of that sun instead of this cold southern night. “If that’s still possible.”

Hawke’s toes still. Fenris realizes the slip and regrets it at once.

“What do you mean, _still possible_?” Hawke’s brows raise as if he’s heard him wrong, then his eyes narrow as if he’s heard him exactly right. “I thought you wanted to hunt slavers until we’re both in the grave. And then for a while after that.”

No, of course this night wouldn’t be the one time that Fenris could actually preventing the alcohol from bringing out his fatalism. One of the many reasons he usually abstains nowadays. “Nothing. Forget about it.”

With a learned gentleness, Fenris cups Hawke’s cheek and runs a thumb over the purple, sagging skin under Hawke’s eye. It’s shocking what something so small can do to ease the tension from Hawke’s brow. Hawke treats each of Fenris’s touches like a precious gem, worth admiring and then storing away for all time.

But for as long as his fingers linger over stubble and sun-speckled skin, Hawke is not the forgetful one here. “Fen,” he prods, utterly undistracted.

If his markings aren’t removed, they’ll be lucky to have the months it would take to return north. But he can’t say that, not when Hawke still thinks they have a future, that they’ll bring in the new year with Fereldan buns and ale. And if Solas does follow through on his word — well, that’s going to be its own bundle of issues.

The tenderness between them are one of the few good things here in this awful place, so when he takes Hawke’s wrist and directs it to rest on his upturned forearm, he does so with a loose grip and soft fingertips. To the place where their skin meets, he whispers, “What do you think will happen when I try to fight without these?” Fenris can picture it without help: a cage of people, faces ranging from terror to numbness, watching as the one person who bothered to come save them is struck down with hardly a struggle.

With his wrist now freed, Hawke runs his thumb up and down Fenris’s arm from elbow to wrist, and it takes Fenris a moment to realize he’s not tracing his markings. Hawke ignores the straight, clean, perfect silver lines, his fingers following instead the curves and branches of Fenris’s veins underneath.

“Oh, please.” Hawke pulls away only to throw his arm over Fenris’s shoulders. Somehow, the warmth of the alcohol in his stomach is outmatched by that arm, tight and stable even as the world tilts around him. “You don’t need those tattoos to win a fight. You’re motherfucking Fenris. Goddamn force of nature.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Bull, stay.”

Nebel tugs Bull down by both horns and kisses him like Bull's lips are the salve to a burn. Nebel’s the one to roll his hips up against Bull’s own; the friction still makes him gasp.

It’s when he tries to slip his tongue through Bull’s teeth that Bull sits up, still straddling Nebel, but frustratingly keeping those gorgeous hands all to himself. “Josie said fifteen minutes, you know,” Bull says.

“And _Josie_ spent all morning teaching me how to _properly_ eat bland, disgusting mush.” There’d been like, eight different knives, and apparently using the wrong one might mean declaring war on a neighboring kingdom. Keeper Deshanna is probably somewhere north, somehow knowing and laughing her ass off at his fumbling. Nebel digs his palms into his eyes until he sees stars like the ones he so wishes he could sleep under again. “Ugh. I just — I feel so _suffocated_.”

_But here …_

Here — and here isn’t the bed, here is with Bull, no matter where they may be — he doesn’t need to be the perfect, _civilized_ elf. He’s not a walking amalgamation of every single Dalish in the world, even the ones in clans across the sea that he’s never fucking heard of. He doesn’t need to worry about tongues clicking if he dares use the wrong spoon to sip his potato water. With Bull, he can laugh, he can bite, he can swear in whatever language he pleases, he can kick and smoke and just _be_.

But he can’t say all that. As much as it feels like there’s … _something_ taking shape between them, it’s still just sex. Though if he had the chance —

“Tell me something, honest,” Bull says.

“Fine,” Nebel mutters, pinning his hands on the sheets above his head and arching his back in a way that’s made many a man before Bull forget their questions.

“If you could give up being Inquisitor tomorrow, would you?”

Nebel freezes mid-arch, then deflates like an aravel sail when Ghilan'nain has stolen back the wind. Were this anyone else, he’d swear up and down that he’s meant for this job. But if he wants to keep the door open for the possibility of something more — whether Bull walks through it or not — there needs to be honesty between them.

“I don’t want to do this,” Nebel says. “I’m not — I’m not _prepared_ for ... any of this, really. And even if I was, I’m still not the right choice, by any stretch of the imagination.”

Bull looks like he might protest. Nebel shakes his head to stop him, then stares into the pillow to his left. Pearl-white, embroidered with golden thread, and more luxurious than anything anyone in his clan has ever laid their heads upon.

“But I’m scared of leaving this in other hands,” he says to the pillow. “Maybe that other someone would be more likely to succeed.” He locks eyes with Bull. “But at whose expense?”

Bull looks at him for a long time, neither nodding nor frowning. It’s uncomfortable, and not in one of the ways Nebel is craving.

Nebel wriggles under Bull’s thighs. “Are you happy with that? Can we fuck now?”

Bull lets out a huff and grabs both of Nebel’s wrists, pinning them over his head until valleys form in the mattress. “Little sex pest,” he teases, breath hot on Nebel’s ear.

“Oh, look who’s talking.”

* * *

“Let’s fuck.”

Bull’s knife pauses against the neck of the rabbit like he’s attempting to shake it down for its coin. Except the throat has already been slit, and all Bull wants from it is its skin and the fat on its bones. His eye flicks to Nebel; the rest of him stays rigid. “Where’s this coming from?” he asks.

“I just — I need a break. I’ve done what I can. There’s nothing else I can say.”

_What a great job the Chantry did. If they can’t destroy us with war, why not take one of our own, fill his head with bullshit, and send him back to tear us apart from the inside?_

Nebel had only needed to hear a handful of comments from the crowd to find himself fleeing back to camp. Nothing good would come of staying around. If they had questions about the Evanuris or the Dread Wolf or any of this esoteric shit, they could find their answers somewhere else.

“Didn’t you tell them so you could control their reaction? Don’t think a fuck is going to achieve that.”

“It’s not like we’re doing anything by sitting around here anyways. It’s fine. Fenris can take care of the rest. Merrill is doing a great job.” Nebel didn’t expect this to take so much convincing. Bull was always the one down for a quick blowjob behind a tree, even when both of them knew safety and privacy were at stake. “And you were right, Bull. We shouldn’t be here. We don’t even know that Solas sent anyone.”

_Do we know he wasn’t sent by Fen’Harel himself?_

“Fenris is pretty damn sure,” Bull responds.

“Don’t listen to him. He’s lost it.”

_He’s lost it. No surprise, after that mess in the sky._

Nebel pinches his nose. These memories are worse than the well ever had been. “Do you want to fuck or not?”

Bull snorts, but the grin left behind is wrong, as if Nebel has told him some horrific joke worth both a laugh and a cringe. _“_ Of course I do.” Bull’s voice is a low heat that makes Nebel’s stomach simmer with need. “But I don’t think you want to.”

“What?”

Bull carves a circle in the air with a nonchalant wave of the knife. “You want to act like everything is normal. You want a distraction.”

“It’s just sex, Bull.”

“See, I know that. It’s not just sex for _you_ , though.”

Nebel jerks his head back. It feels like those times when his Keeper would try to stop him from visiting the nearby towns or when the advisors would pressure his judgments one way or another. A building pressure of stubborn anger that he’d do his best to contain and then let out slowly, like tilting the lid on a steaming pot. But Bull has prodded him in a moment when he doesn’t particularly care enough to bother restraining it. “Stop trying to speak for me,” he says.

Bull meets his glare with a level gaze, then sets the knife down. “Fine,” he says. “C’mere, then.”

Two fingers beckon him closer, curling at the knuckle in a way Nebel knows well. Bull goes so far as to spread his knees in invitation. A challenge.

He shouldn’t do this. It’s been years since the last time he fucked someone out of pure frustration and the need for the sort of temporary relief that only stretched muscles and a stomach splattered with cum can provide. It’s never been that way with Bull. Even before they’d gotten serious, there’d always been something there: a promise to get a drink together afterwards, a head on a shoulder, hands untangling his hair after all the pulling was done.

But it doesn’t _need_ to be like that. Nebel steels his expression and moves into Bull’s space, each step slow and with purpose. He looks down into that smug gray eye and feels like he’s about to enter a duel that he knows he can’t win. That’s fine. It’s more fun when he loses, anyway.

Bull places his hands on either side of Nebel’s waist, and _oh,_ how small he feels as he leans down to press his lips against Bull’s. Bull kisses him with the leisurely, deep pressure of someone trying to massage a knot out of a stubborn muscle. Nebel wraps his hand around Bull’s horn, right where it meets his skull, and he forces his tongue between those chapped lips. He will not back down, even as his knees threaten to give out.

Bull’s hand slides up under Nebel’s shirt, fingers taking the time to dip into each notch of his spine, climbing one by one until they reaches the crown of his head. The sting of his hair being twisted around those fingers drops Nebel’s mouth into a moan. Bull uses his ceaseless grip to tilt Nebel’s head back, and he can’t help the whine as Bull closes his teeth around his bottom lip and _pulls_. It’s perfect. It’s years of practice. Bull knows exactly how much strength he needs to not draw blood but still make it _hurt_.

The want in him is a fire that makes him clench his hand tighter around the rough surface of Bull’s horn, open his mouth wider, pull his entire body closer, desperate for a release from the heat.

_He’s desperate. He got one taste of power and would do anything to get it back._

His fingers twitch. It’s fine. He moves them to Bull’s hand that’s been toying with the waistband of pants, encouraging those fingers to sink deeper, reveling in the heat against that starving area of skin.

He shuts his eyes and sees Bull staring him down in a forgotten corner of the woods, no compassion in his eye, alone except for a tainted cup of tea. He sweeps the thought away and presses his mouth into Bull’s until their teeth knock.

And then he sees Bull in front of an eluvian, blood dripping through its cracks, the mirror reflecting nothing but his cold, gray eye.

“ _Katoh”_ slips out in a hitched breath. It hurts to pull away, the heat in him raging as it loses each point of contact, but he knows this fire inside him would consume them both.

He doesn’t expect to look down and see Bull’s eye looking up at him, a reflection of all the same pain he’s feeling within. He can’t look away, but he can’t breathe either; it feels like Bull’s hands on his waist are squeezing the last bits of air from him, but he knows it’s only that desolate eye doing all the strangling.

Without thinking, Nebel lifts his hand to stroke at where Bull’s horn meets his head — the same place he’d dug his nails into only minutes before. The pain doesn’t fade. He sees it survive in the tension of Bull’s brow, the quiver of his neck, the pressure against his own skin, but then Bull shuts his eye and hides it all from him.

“It’s not just sex for you, either,” Nebel whispers.

“Damn,” is all Bull says.

“Sorry. I won’t push anymore.” But he can’t pull away, not when Bull keeps clinging to him like he’s the sole piece of driftwood left in the middle of the sea.

_This was cruel_ , Nebel thinks, and he can’t blame that on anyone but himself. He presses his palm into his right eye, wishing he had another to dig into the left. “Fuck. This won’t work. I just need — “

_He needs help. Please, lethallin, come down from there, we can talk —_

“I need a smoke,” he decides, keeping his eyes clenched but waving Bull away. “You don’t need to hang around.”

Nebel feels fingers on his wrist. He blinks his eyes open and looks at Bull, ready for the disappointment or anger or exasperation he expects to see. But Bull just looks at him with patience and compassion, so much more than he feels worthy of. “Nah, I’ll be here,” Bull says. “Can’t get rid of me that easy.”

_No wonder he got rid of his clan. Easier to erase your history than to face it._

“Besides, you’re always kind of funny on that junk,” Bull says with a smile that tugs at Nebel’s heart, and oh, how he needs that smoke.

* * *

Nebel feels like a leaf floating along the surface of a warm river. Each thought is a stone dropped in the water, and by the time it’s sunk to the riverbed, he’s already drifted beyond it.

Except for one, a stone as heavy as it is stubborn.

He exhales elfroot smoke into the air, blowing rings until his throat burns, but the stupid wind keeps stealing them away before they can reach the trees. The exact line of logic doesn’t matter, but he’s certain that if he can get one to reach the sky, this weight will be lifted from his chest.

His people are suffering, all because of him. The thought is a driving force to action; the thought is paralyzing. He wants to get up and help. He needs to. But he knows better than anyone that there’s no words that can ease the pain of what they’ve learned.

Their whole lives, a lie. Their religion, a sham.

Maybe he should have kept his silence. Maybe he should have pressured Merrill into speaking instead. Or Fenris. He tries to imagine Fenris in his place, standing in front of the Dalish and trying to tell his people the truth of the Creators.

_Gods are fake. Move along. Nothing to see here._

He sputters at the image of a hundred blank, confused faces staring at Fenris with his middle finger held high.

“You laughin’ at my sewing?”

Nebel props himself up on his elbow, pipe balanced between his index and middle finger. When he’d last looked, Bull hadn’t even gotten the needle threaded. Bull is either the fastest seamstress in the world, or time has gotten itself tangled into a coil.

He hadn’t noticed that Bull had traded away his socks. These new rabbit-hide ones should keep him warm, at least.

“No, Bull. They look great. I like that you left the ears on.”

“Adds character.”

Bull’s fingers nimbly guide the needle through the layers of skin. Nebel thinks of the hat he once had — big, lopsided, and made of the coarse fur of a bear. Bull had pieced it together for him one cold night in the Emprise, and he’d nearly cried as his ears felt warmth for the first time in weeks.

“I was trying to picture Fenris as a Dalish elf,” he explains.

As he’d hoped, the idea makes Bull grin. “That’d be a sight. One of these Keepers would try to tell him what to do, and he’d just kill them for being a mage.”

Nebel covers his laugh with his hand. The smoke of the pipe shudders away from his short breaths. “He’s kind of hot though, isn’t he?”

“You know you stabbed him yesterday, don’t you?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Might’ve ruined your chances there.” Bull shrugs. “But who knows? I’ve met people into freakier shit.”

* * *

“Hey, Bull.”

Bull looks up from the skinning his — second? third? twelfth?— rabbit. Nebel can’t remember where this one came from or when Bull would have had time to catch it. Maybe it also thought Bull’s lap looked unbelievably inviting and decided to jump right in.

Now that he’s got Bull’s full attention, Nebel asks, “Do you remember when I finally convinced Cullen to smoke with me?”

“Who could forget?” Bull starts laughing with a sound so full, so vivid that one person couldn’t possibly hold it all themselves. Nebel has no choice but to join in and carry the laughter as well.

“Hey, it helped with his migraines,” Nebel says. Cullen had resisted up until the worst weeks of his withdrawal, when he could hardly crack his eyes open without the light making him groan. At that point, he’d been open to anything. Nebel is glad he could provide an alternative to the true relief he’d walked in on Cullen considering.

He should write Cullen again soon. He’s invited Nebel for a visit more than a few times at this point.

_My friend, truly, if you need help, do not hesitate to —_

No, wait. An even _better_ idea:

“I should ship him some more sometime,” Nebel says. “All those ex-Templars could probably use it. And it got his appetite back, didn’t it?”

“Hah. It sure did.” Bull snorts. “Half the soldiers wouldn’t have had rations that week if I hadn’t stopped you two from plowing through the kitchens.”

“Finally got him to fix up his chambers though. Can’t hotbox with a hole in your ceiling.”

* * *

Time paints the sky with drippy streaks of orange, its wet beads trickling to the ground in the form of the day’s last rays of light. The minutes seem to skip ahead every time Nebel turns his back on them. Time has always been a mysterious creature — he learned that well, jumping two years into the future in the blink of an eye — but he doesn’t need to understand it to see the danger of letting too much of it slip away.

With each arrhythmic second — some last for an eternity, some seem to come three at a time — he feels doubt filling his head like rain dripping through one of those awful tents in the Hinterlands, tearing two new holes for every one he’d stitch up. The doubt may be only drops now, little more than an annoyance, but he knows he’s going to wake up soaked to the bone.

“Nebel.”

“Mm?” Nebel doesn’t look up, too wrapped up in envisioning patching up the leaks.

“If it’s going to stew, you need to say it.”

He wonders if Bull has found a way to read his thoughts, or if he’s accidentally said some of them aloud. There’s a question that’s been floating through his mind, as much as he’d like to ignore it. He wishes it would go ahead and drown.

Failing that, he might as well go for a swim.

“Come on,” Nebel says, pushing himself up fast enough that blood rushes to his head and he finds himself swaying. “This place is suffocating.”

“Right. It’s gotta be all the trees around here. Couldn’t possibly be the smoke.”

“Hush.”

Bull’s too big to climb a tree, which would normally be Nebel’s go-to escape. But while branches may snap under Bull’s weight, the ground won’t. Hopefully. A hole in the sky was weird enough.

There’s no path as Nebel leads Bull winding in a spiral up the hill that he’d spied to the north. As the land becomes more steep and rocks become more common than trees, Nebel finds comfort in the thinning air. There were many things he hadn’t liked about being put up in that tower in Skyhold — the entire principle of it, for one — but the ability to step outside and take a breath of cool air and see the crests of mountains stretching to the horizon had always been a benefit. Something about it had managed to feel cleansing, even at the worst of times.

“There we go,” Nebel says, stopping only once they’ve come to the summit. At its peak is a stone, rising a foot or two higher than the tips of Bull’s horns. Covered in moss that’s likely grown after years of solitude, it dips in the middle, dividing it almost exactly in half.

They’ve come to the top. There’s no way they’re not climbing this rock.

“Damn. Now that’s a fine ass.” Bull slaps an open palm down on the stone formation.

“I was gonna say it looks like your balls.”

“Nah,” Bull says, tracing a finger up the moist surface. “Left side’s too small.”

He’s not wrong. Dirt showers from the sides of the rock as Bull climbs up first, hefting one leg up after the other with confidence. When both he and the dust have settled, Nebel grabs hold of a jut in the stone and plants his left foot in a crevice. He frowns as he looks for a spot to put his right foot and find only smooth, slippery planes. A year ago, he could’ve scaled a cliff two stories high in the time it’s taken him to find a single foothold.

“Need a … lift?” Bull asks.

“I’ve got it.”

A foot above him, something seems to have chipped away the stone, forming a few inches of a ledge. He can do this. He doesn’t need Bull to get up a damn rock. He jumps, and his fingers are curling around the edge before he’s even realized he’s reached it. He pulls, arm aching, and scrambles up the rest of the stone.

At the top, Bull is smiling.

“Your right arm’s getting stronger.” Bull’s eye traces from shoulder to fingertips like he’s appraising a new axe. “Good to see.”

Is it? Nebel turns his wrist over as he sits, seeing more veins than muscles. Maybe one day the bone won’t protrude like a growth waiting to be sliced off. Throwing knives again would be nice.

Nestled at the top of the tallest hill around, the rock offers a view of the Arlathvhen that Nebel’s surprised doesn’t have a crowd of people lined up to see it. To the left, someone is dancing in the middle of the ceremony grounds, telling a story to the gathered masses through movements slow and deliberate. And to the right, smoke rises from the gaps in the trees, where people are surely gathered around fires just as orange as the setting sun. Maybe even more so, if the sky’s colors have bled into them as well.

“Alright,” Bull says as he settles back on his elbows and crosses his legs. “Out with it.”

Damn. The climb hadn’t made Bull forget after all.

He could make something up. Keep it light, ask Bull about the early days of the Chargers again, ask how the coming storm is affecting his knee — but he’s got a choice to make, and none of that will bring him closer to it. So once the lump has left his throat, he fishes out the question that’s been tainting his high. “What did you learn from Merrill?”

It’s not the best time to ask. Maybe he should tell Bull to write it down instead, so the elfroot doesn’t cloud this memory. But he can’t stop counting, running his mind back to each eluvian the Qunari had, and those memories hold much more than just numbers. There couldn’t have been that many in-tact eluvians left in the world. Surely the ones the Qunari recovered needed repairs — and Bull brought them the tools for that.

Bull sits up. The tips of his horns hang over the edge of the rock as he slumps forward. He looks tired. Nebel feels tired.

“You might not like the answer,” Bull says.

“I want it anyway.”

“Alright.” There’s a string of cracks as Bull makes a slow show of rolling his shoulders and neck, popping each individual joint. “They kept me in the dark. When they could, that is. So far as I know, this was all old news.”

“As far as you know.”

“Yeah.” Bull shrugs. “Anyways. Merrill never figured out how to fix her mirror. But she was close, if you’re asking me.”

“Of course I am. Who else would I be asking?” Nebel shuts his eyes and laughs. What a ridiculous thing for Bull to say. Bull has a habit of doing that, always saying the goofiest shit just to see how much he can make Nebel lose it. He lets the laugh keep going as long as he has breath.

Bull coughs. “You good there?”

Nebel blinks a few times, eyelids heavy. Right, they were talking. He’d asked a question. _That_ question. He groans. “Yeah. Keep going.”

“Alright. You sure?”

“Yes. You were saying — her mirror. She was close.”

“Right. The thing was so broken it wouldn’t even reflect. Creeped me out, if I’m bein’ honest. But she was able to break it in a different way, and, well, that’s the first step to fixing anything.”

No wonder Bull can bounce back from his mistakes without even a stutter if that’s how he views them. But Nebel knows that broken things like dead clans and armies of crazed templars can’t be fixed no matter the steps taken.

Bull keeps going. “She said she’d tried everything. Only thing to actually make a difference was lyrium.”

“Lyrium? Dalish mages don’t usually like the stuff.”

“Who would? But she figured out a way to turn the lyrium into some sort of glaze that she could paint with. She gave me the recipe.”

“Gave.”

“Okay, wrong word. You get it. She covered the whole mirror with it, and it started to reflect after a few coats. Still wouldn’t open for her, but it was something.” Bull stares into the fire, body gone still, his face expressionless. “Said it was maybe the happiest moment of her life.”

“Hm.”

“And then — “ Bull claps his hands together. “ _Bam._ Big flash. Shattered the glass again too.”

“Whoa.”

“Merrill’s got a head for science, though. Tried it again, each time with a stronger concentration. And every night, the same thing would happen. Never could get it to last more than a few hours before it went off.”

Had that been the Qunari’s key to unlocking their eluvians? Nebel turns the words over in his head for a minute, offering them up to the well that likely knows the answer. It gives him only silence.

_Petty_ , he thinks, with as much spit and scorn as his mind can conjure. The well responds with a vision of him with thread binding his lips and a collar around his neck, leashed by none other than the Iron Bull himself.

Sometimes he regrets not letting Morrigan saddle herself with this shit.

“Thanks for telling me,” Nebel whispers, knowing that getting deeper in an argument with the ancients isn’t going to lead anywhere good.

Bull watches the dancer in the distance like he understands the storyline at all, like glancing away for even a second would doom him to miss the best part.

“Are you doing alright?” Nebel asks.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Oh, Nebel’s got plenty of ideas. He tucks his elbow into a crease in the stone and props his chin up on his hand. “You just opened one of _Hissrad’s Boxes_ ,” he says. “Are you scared you’re gonna freak out?”

“No.”

Nebel finds a twig to lob at him. “Liar.”

“Fine.” Bull picks the stick up and taps it in a slow rhythm against his ankle. “I don’t like talking about his shit.”

“Your shit, you mean.” Nebel mirrors Bull’s incredulous look. “Come on. It’s not like you’re gonna summon a demon just by saying all this.”

“Not scared of demons,” Bull says. Another lie. “But I’ve seen too many Tal-Vashoth foaming at the mouth. No reason to think I’m any different.”

“And I’m sure you’ve seen plenty who were just trying to live their days in peace.”

“Yep. Killed all them too.”

With all the gracious _whatever you need, kadan_ ’s, Nebel sometimes forgets how obstinate Bull can be. “It’s not going to happen to you.”

Bull suddenly looks so much like Second Enasa that Nebel has trouble looking at him. He wears that same dubious expression Nebel would always get from the apprentice as he’d prep to wander into a shem town or the unknown woods on his own. Always insisting to her that _nothing is going to happen_. Up until the day something had. Up until she’d found him lying under a tree, blood from his temples to his thighs. And like an idiot, he’d just kept arguing, long after _nothing will happen_ turned into _let it happen, why should I care_?

“It won’t,” Nebel says again, a strained whisper. He takes another drag.

“Some of those Tal-Vashoth — I knew them before. Good men. And then — ” The twig snaps in two between Bull’s fists. “They’re out there, killing children. Schools full of them.”

_Ah, this again._ Bull hasn’t brought up the school since before the Dreadnaught, back when Nebel still hadn’t been sure what to make of him. “Are they?” he asks, now that he’s in a position to question it. “You know, if I was trying to _reeducate_ someone, that’s exactly what I’d tell them.” He scoffs. “Schools full of children? Why would they even bother?”

“I remember it,” Bull says.

“Do you? You’ve been reeducated. You don’t know what they did up in there.” Nebel taps a finger against his temple. “Is any of that real?” Nebel thinks for a moment as Bull’s expression goes distant. “Is any of this?”

Bull gives an exasperated shake of the head. “You’re high.”

“Very.”

Nebel laughs as he lies back against the stone. He wishes there was a chance Bull would ever accept the offer of a hit from his pipe. Nothing helps with reconciling _all my beliefs are a lie_ like a good smoke.

“So, how would you do it?” Bull asks.

“What?”

“How would you kill me? If I do go mad.” Bull raises an eyebrow at Nebel’s stunned silence. “Come on, you’ve got to have a plan.”

This is a weird conversation topic. Nebel decides to indulge it anyway, if it means Bull will chill out a bit. “I don’t know, sneak up on you?”

“And then?”

“And then … get your left knee from behind?”

Bull scratches at his chin. “Good, good. That’s a start. Keep going.”

Nebel takes a second to pretend to consider it. “Knife in the neck would kill you quick.”

“Nope. Nice try, though. Even if I’ve gone mad, the neck is gonna be the first thing I protect.”

“Fine. What do _you_ recommend?”

“Hmm. See, you’re a light little thing. If you can grab hold of a horn, you can swing yourself all the way up here.” Bull pats his bare shoulder. “And then _wham_. Get my other eye, just like that. I’m good as dead at that point.”

“Well. Thanks for the tips, I guess.”

It takes a few more minutes before Bull relaxes to the point that his tension no longer acts like a pebble in Nebel’s shoe. Finally. It would’ve been a waste of good elfroot otherwise. Nebel lays back in relief and imagines roots growing from every numbed nerve and sinking into the ground.

He sleeps, maybe.

There’s a hot bowl of food in his lap. They’re back at camp. That doesn’t seem right.

Oh, wait. Bull had carried him, even when Nebel had done his damnedest to slacken his body into deadweight. And then Bull had stepped away, hadn’t he? Nebel had wondered why it got so quiet, why every click and tap of the woods suddenly reverberated in his bones. He’d gotten too caught up in snapping his fingers, over and over, fascinated by the waves it sent through him, like an extra heartbeat he could trigger at will.

The food is a mix of squash and mushrooms, scorched black at the edges and with a generous dusting of greens and browns and reds. He insists that Bull take the first bite, and his reaction warms the tips of Nebel’s limbs. While Bull shovels the rest into his mouth, Nebel explains that the herbs needed for this dish come from far and wide — a combination of spices only made possible by a gathering like this, where clans of different regions can exchange cuttings and seeds to bring back and nurture. Bull insists he should start toting along a wagon of potted plants if it means they can eat food this good on the regular.

“So besides all of … this. What do you think of the Arlathvhen so far?” Nebel asks, taking one bite out of a particularly well-charred mushroom. “Having fun? Notice anything weird?”

“Fun. Right. Yeah.” Bull flicks a fallen chunk of bark into the fire. With every sound humming through his limbs, Nebel can’t possibly miss the drop in Bull’s voice. “Just wish the Chargers were here.”

Nebel thinks of the crystal in his bag, knowing he has a friend to talk to any time waiting on the other end of it. While Bull … Bull has been here, all alone, doing whatever he can to keep busy.

Nebel stuffs more elfroot into his pipe.

After the smoke leaves his lips, he thinks of something to say that isn’t an apology. “How do you think each of them would do here? Think they could blend in?”

“Dalish would be fine, of course,” Bull says. “Krem would volunteer Grim to do a prayer or something, and then he’d just give one big grunt.”

“Oh! I swear, I did that once.” Bull raises his eyebrows, a curious prompt for Nebel to continue. “We were praying, and the Keeper _apparently_ asked me to say something, so my friend gave me a nudge. But I’d fallen asleep! And I thought it was over, so I just grunted and told him to fuck off.”

Bull snorts. “Oh, you would.”

“My Keeper was _not_ happy.”

They laugh together, a deep bellow and a throaty chuckle mixing together in a sound that Nebel decides is his favorite in the world. It feels like the piece his body has been searching for in every other noise, and at last the crackle of the fire and the chirps of the insects stop feeling so hollow.

* * *

Night comes. Nebel finds his feet carrying him to the cliff, draping themselves over the edge of it, growing cold as the wind brushes their bare skin. The buzz in his head begins to fade away, like an insect that’s been perched on his shoulder taking flight and leaving him to silence.

There’s lights behind him, pinks and reds and greens that he catches glimpses of only as reflections on the water or flashes in the corners of his vision. To a low chorus of drums, the apprentices are showing off the magic they’ve learned since the last festival. It’s a celebration of knowledge and progress, though Nebel’s sure that there’s also a competitive edge to it. A decade ago, Enasa had practiced her dancing globes of snow for months in preparation. Nebel wonders if the commotion has woken Bull yet or if his snores have been enough to cover it.

He debates taking out the durgen’dirth and calling for Dorian. He’d fished it out of his bag before leaving camp just in case a wave of courage or loneliness had him needing a friend. Dorian would certainly complain about being woken at this time of night, but it would be brief and then followed by some of the most intent listening that anyone could ask for.

“You’re being watched.”

The drums, sadly, are not loud enough for Nebel to plausibly pretend he can’t hear Fenris. The man stands behind him with crossed arms, his silver hair reflecting the green of a nature spell.

Nebel says, “You’re awfully concerned about me.”

“Simply informing you that it would be unwise to let down your guard.”

“Great. Thanks.” It’s a shame to be caught up in Fenris’s web of paranoia that he just keeps spinning. Nebel would rather just be left alone.

“What is that odd smell about you?” Fenris asks.

“Er, nothing.”

Fenris pauses to sniff at the air. Nebel holds his breath while he hopes Fenris doesn’t recognize it. He’s not looking to end the night with another rant from Fenris about his vices. “Hawke’s smelled like this a few times as well,” Fenris says.

Nebel snorts. “I’ll bet he has.”

He doesn’t know how to react when Fenris comes to sit on the edge of the cliff beside him. He clings a bit tighter to the ledge just in case Fenris has plans to slap him on the back and send him falling to his death. Fenris pulls a bottle from inside his coat. He takes one long drink, then holds the bottle out for Nebel. Huh. Nebel stares at Fenris’s neck to check that he actually swallows it, and shockingly, he does. Is Fenris dosing himself with an antidote to trick his enemies into drinking poison more or less plausible than him offering a kind gesture? Nebel can’t decide. He takes the chance anyway.

Three cautious drops of Dalish ale hit his tongue. It burns like a brash step towards a fire and tastes like memories of lying on someone’s chest in a hammock, getting drunk on liquor and sunlight and touch.

He gulps down a swig of it.

“I suppose it’s true, then,” Fenris says, and Nebel picks up on the slur in his words that he’d missed before. “Hawke told me you’d drink with anyone, even people you despise.”

Nebel rolls his eyes. “I don’t _hate_ you. You’re a pompous ass. You’re violent. Maybe a bit deranged. And I think you’d do well to stop butting into places you don’t belong.” He gets the sneer he anticipated. “But there’s things about you I admire, too.”

“I don’t need your flattery.”

Nebel lets out an amused snort. Of course Fenris would focus on refuting the one positive thing he said in a litany of criticisms. “See? It’s that. You’re so damn sure of yourself.” He holds the ale back out to him. “I assume you don’t hate me either then, if you’re drinking with me.”

Fenris grabs the neck of the bottle. “Don’t make too many assumptions.” Nebel laughs.

Their first awkward silence creeps up, later than Nebel expected. He decides he’ll let Fenris be the one to break it. He can’t shake the fear that even asking Fenris his thoughts on the weather could send him into a tirade.

“It’s good they know the truth now,” Fenris says, looking out over the water. “If they’re determined to join him, there’s nothing we can do to stop it. A mage will seize any chance at power, without question. I have no doubt some will find his message very appealing. But it’s still better that than a life of ignorance. Dreaming of bringing back some past that never existed in the first place.”

Fenris takes another gulp of liquor. Nebel wonders how his words can still sound so meticulously chosen even with alcohol slurring them together.

“Maybe. I hope it was the right choice,” Nebel says, even if he only agrees with a fraction of Fenris’s assertions.

Fenris looks vaguely disgusted, as if he’s climbed out of the lake below and found strange sea flora clinging to his skin. If the few words Nebel has said have upset him that much, there’s little hope for a conversation.

But Fenris keeps talking, even if it’s through a repulsed sneer. “Perhaps if they know their ancestors were once slaves, they’ll have a little empathy for the people who actually are.”

“Well, thanks. I think,” Nebel says. He doesn’t feel the need to get too deep into that one. It’s not worth the fight. “Nice to know you actually approve of one thing I’ve done.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Fenris mutters. “It was a surprise to see you follow through on your word.”

“Merrill would have probably boiled me from the inside if I hadn’t.”

“Ah, yes,” Fenris drawls out. “Perhaps it was more of a surprise that you’d swear to that for some Ben-Hassrath’s sake.”

Fenris just can’t help but throw down gauntlets. Maybe he’ll eventually realize Nebel doesn’t intend to pick any of them up. “I don’t know how Hawke puts up with you.”

Fenris takes another sip, and then his expression falls. As he stares down the neck of the liquor, the anger fades into a look more thoughtful than Nebel thought the man capable of. Fenris sighs and trails his index finger in repeated circles around the lip of the bottle — slow, delicate, and producing a soft hum as the glass sings under his touch. It does … strange things to Nebel’s stomach. Heat rises to his cheeks. Fenris has awfully nice hands.

_Ugh_. It’s been, what, three days? And here he is, turning red next to a man who tried to kill him and his lover the night before. Nebel groans at himself. He’s an idiot. Too fucked-up for this world.

“What was it like to lose your arm?” Fenris asks, still staring at the bottle.

Nebel’s mind snaps back to reality, and his body instinctively angles his left side away from Fenris. His eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Call it morbid curiosity.”

Nebel raises an eyebrow. It’s not something he’s eager to talk about, especially when he can’t tell the motives of the asker. But he follows Fenris’s gaze, and while it’s no longer on the horizon, it’s also not on Nebel. Fenris stares down at his own lap. Nebel’s first thought is that Fenris may be feeling the alcohol stirring in his stomach — he braces himself to duck away from any incoming vomit — but then Fenris’s head shifts slightly, and his eyes move like he’s tracing the veins in his arms. But it’s not the veins, is it? Fenris’s pensive expression is almost certainly the same one that Nebel gets chided for when Bull catches him staring at what’s left of his arm.

“Painful,” he finally decides to say. “I never knew flesh could crumble like that. Like ash, you know? But it was slow. So, so fucking slow. I asked Bull to cut the rest of it off, just so I didn’t have to feel it anymore.” He keeps talking just to intercept any questions about that particular memory. “And after that? It sucked. It still does.” He rubs at his eyes. His head feels like a bag filled with holes, every carefully-picked word falling out as soon as he finds it. “I don’t know. I guess … I lost my confidence without the Anchor. I thought it made me who I was. The only reason I was worthwhile.”

“Hm.” Fenris looks away from his arms. With his typical scowl covering any other emotion, there’s no telling if any of Nebel’s words meant anything to him. Either way, he offers Nebel another round at the bottle, which he takes without hesitation.

Nebel supposes it’s his turn to fend off the silence. “Have either of you heard any news of Solas, then? Besides the things I’ve said.”

“No.”

“What about with the lyrium?”

“That’s not any of your business.”

Nebel snorts and lets the sound turn into a laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

Their thumbs brush as Fenris takes back the offered bottle, and Nebel ignores the shock that sends across his skin. It’s a stupid reaction of a body stressed to its limits and starved for touch. Even Hawke has started to look quite handsome, and that’s how Nebel knows his brain isn’t functioning right.

Fenris scowls and shakes out his right hand as he passes the bottle into his left. “This air is polluted with magic,” he mutters, sneering. “The stench will be here for days at this point.”

“I like the smell. It’s sweet.”

“You would love Minrathous.”

Nebel rolls his eyes. _It’s not worth it_ , he repeats to himself, a mantra that wards off the worst of the tension in his fist. _Don’t engage, just change the subject._

“Where will you and Hawke be heading after this?” Hopefully Fenris can’t find a way to flip that around on him as well.

“Home.”

Nebel blinks. “Home?”

Fenris looks out over the water with a look as wistful as his tone. “We have a cabin, hidden in the Free Marches. It is not much. But it’s a place to return to when we’re tired of the rest of the world.”

“Sounds nice.”

“And you?” Fenris’s eyelids begin to droop, his head lulling forward. Nebel has the thought that he should help him back to his camp, if he can somehow pull his own legs back from the void they’ve wandered off to.

“I don’t know. Bull has a mercenary crew, I travel with them a lot. Lots of inns, lots of campsites. It’s what I’m used to.”

“Beats being trapped in one place.”

Nebel nods, a movement that feels like lifting a boulder. The alcohol and the last of the elfroot have mixed into a strange feeling that makes his head heavy and his tongue loose. He listens to the sound of Fenris’s gulps, the drums and the howling wind, and wonders how much work went into orchestrating such a relaxing song.

“Say, do you and Hawke ever have issues getting rooms?”

“What do you mean?”

“At an inn. Or wherever,” Nebel says. “As two men? As an elf with a non-elf?”

“Oh. Of course we do.” Fenris lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Do they assume you’re his servant too?”

“I’ve broken fingers for that.”

“Have you really?” For once, Fenris sounds interested. He tilts the neck of the bottle towards Nebel in a sloshing salute. “Perhaps you have more to you than I thought.”

When the memory of that night in the tavern leaves him and he can’t hold on to any more of his smile, Nebel whispers, “It’s hard, sometimes.”

“People hate us both for many more reasons than that,” Fenris says. “I don’t have enough time left to waste any of it on caring about what they think.”

Some time later, Fenris goes. Nebel doesn’t notice the moment it happens. He simply looks up, seconds or minutes or eons later, and he’s alone. He’s surprised to see the bottle left behind, at least a third of it still left. He takes one last swig and nods to the spot where there used to be a man.

He doesn’t know if it’s habit or sentiment that has him reaching for the tooth around his neck, running his fingers over every familiar bump and crack. It’s cold. It’s heavy, as it always is. Every time a thought comes to him — of what he wants to say, of where he wants to go from here — it fades into nothing more than a burst of color and feeling, no different from the lights behind him.

When he can find his legs again, he’ll head back. But it’s nice to not have to think, at least for a moment. It’s a glimpse of still waters in the eye of a storm that never seems to end.

in the chill winds of the night, he finally feels at peace. And in the cacophony of drums and magic and voices celebrating the implausible feat of another ten years on this land, no one hears the crash of a body hitting the water below.


	13. Chapter 13

A morning walk does nothing but worsen Fenris’s headache. He can’t tell if the ceremony happening in the main grounds is supposed to be tense and full of uneasy whispers or if this is just the aftermath of Lavellan’s speech. He looks for Shielan amongst them, but her cropped brown hair is nowhere to be found. He can’t blame her — all these chants and rituals have him half-expecting a magister to show up and drag a blood sacrifice out in chains. He watches the elves wash their hands in a communal bowl for an hour before the suspicious looks thrown his way begin to crawl up his skin.

On the way back to camp, he barters for something to eat with one of the elves not participating in the ceremony. The man looks at him with empty, tired eyes as he silently hands over a bundle of bird meat. Fenris is so used to seeing that expression on elves in Tevinter that it takes him a moment to realize it’s unusual.

If Solas’s agent is going to make a move, they sure do have an audience.

Camp is empty. Fenris leaves the meat strung from a wooden rack, one of many tools that have sprung into existence in the past few days. Hawke never fails to keep busy.

Fenris finds a map and a note scribbled in Hawke’s hand attached to his tea supply. If anyone here were trustworthy, Fenris would make a pot of tea and cook the birds up first. But he’s seen the nature of this event and the malice that hides under the singing and prayers, and the thought of Hawke wandering here alone has him tearing fringe into the edges of the parchment.

He follows the directions to a bubbling creek, where he averts his eyes from the bathing elves and focuses on filling his canteen instead. He only needs to walk along the rocky banks of the water for a few minutes before he finds Hawke amongst the people washing dishes, bodies, and cloth. Merrill is with him, laughing as she helps wash the blood out of a bundle of familiar garments.

“Fen!” Hawke waves both arms from the opposite side of the water — Merrill grabs the trousers he’s dropped before they drift too far downstream. Fenris keeps his gaze firmly on his feet as he wades through the creek to join them. The Fog Warriors bathed in the rivers together too, but they at least all _knew_ each other. As far as he can tell, these people are as much strangers to each other as they are to him.

“There’s too many people here,” Fenris says.

“You wanna walk around looking like we walked out of a slaughterhouse? Were you raised in a barn?” Hawke asks.

“No, but you were.”

Hawke laughs. If Fenris doesn’t take over the washing, it will never get done, so he takes the basket and shreds of soap from them both, half-listening as Hawke tells them both the story of how he’d gotten lost on his way to Skyhold and taken shelter in a bear cave for a night. He’d apparently shown up with a warm scarf that only Varric had been able to tell was fresh.

Fenris watches for anyone placing too much attention on Hawke. But despite all the warnings saying otherwise, it seems that the people here do not in fact care all that much about the _uninvited ears_ of a human. Or perhaps Merrill’s obvious companionship with Hawke is enough to pacify any skeptical eyes.

When Hawke has finished his story, Merrill asks Fenris, “You were at the apprentice performances last night, weren’t you? I thought I saw you brooding in the corner.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Did you have a favorite? Mine was the First who made those flowers out of light — did you see that? The colors that flew up and rained down all around us? Oh, it was marvelous.”

“It was careless,” Fenris grumbles.

“Sounds like somethin’ we’d get up to back in Lothering,” Hawke says. “Sometimes with magic. Sometimes just with good ol’-fashioned explosives.” Hawke forms a fist over his head, then stretches out his fingers while he puffs out a _whoosh-_ ing sound. “Blowing up a pumpkin? Now _that’s_ a good show.”

Fenris smiles. That sounds far more enjoyable than the risky mess of the night before.

Hawke leans forward and grins conspiratorially. He must have caught sight of Fenris’s grin, and as always, is determined to continue stoking it however he can. “Do you remember that time Varric accidentally blew up that bandit’s stash? What a bummer. But at least we got to see all that gold rain down!”

Hawke is left with his hands still thrown in the air, fingers wiggling as he cackles.

“No,” Fenris says. “I don’t believe I was there.”

“You definitely were. You said it looked like what would happen if you popped a magister open, except it was missing the good gory parts.”

“I don’t remember that.”

Hawke’s grin falters. It stays in place, but his eyes lose the creases around their edges. “Well, that’s alright. Take my word for it, you were very funny.”

Fenris shifts his gaze to his lap, and Hawke takes the hint and stops the reminiscing. _Lyrium is a cruel thief,_ he thinks. Somehow it only takes the pleasant memories from his time in Kirkwall and never the ones from Tevinter that he’d pay fortunes to forget.

He keeps his head down at the sound of footsteps drawing near, hoping to avoid a face full of nudity. It’s only when he hears cough that he looks up.

Iron Bull. Wonderful. Just what this morning needs.

He crosses the stream in four steps. Not even Hawke returns his wave. Iron Bull is alone, but the absence of Lavellan can only do so much to make Fenris more welcoming to this guest.

“Hey,” Iron Bull says, boots squelching in the mud, three blank faces staring up at him. There’s something off about his demeanor. His expression is as casual as always, but his movements are less sluggish. His usual fake air of nonchalance isn’t holding up so well. His eye flicks around the creek like he’s also got lyrium poisoning and can’t keep track of all the shadows. When Fenris looks around, he sees nothing noteworthy other than a dozen faces turned to stare at the Qunari who seems to have come out of nowhere.

“Do you need something?” Fenris asks.

“Got a favor to ask you, Merrill,” Iron Bull says in a testament to his overwhelming boldness, idiocy, or capacity for manipulation.

Merrill wrings out a shirt with more force than necessary. “What is it?”

“That, uh, phylactery thingy you did,” Iron Bull says. “The blood magic. It’s still working, right?”

“Oh.” Merrill relaxes. “Well, Lavellan did what I asked, so it doesn’t matter anymore. You two can leave at any time.”

“Right. Deal is done, I get that,” Iron Bull says. At the sound of a splash, he whips his head around, but it’s nothing more than a dirty pan dropped into water. Fenris hopes this isn’t what his own jumpiness looks like to others. “But in theory — you could still track us, right?”

“I haven’t checked, but yes, it should still be in your systems,” Merrill says.

Disabling that would indeed be a favor for Iron Bull. Perhaps he’s preparing for some act of theft he knows would have Merrill after him, regardless of their deal. Or perhaps he’s grown tired of Lavellan and is looking for a way to run from the altar without risk of being chased.

Hawke takes it upon himself to stand. He’s like a mabari, always soaking up the energy of those around him, and restlessness is pouring off Iron Bull in droves. “What’s this about?”

Iron Bull stares at Merrill for a few seconds too long. Before Fenris can step in, sensing the discomfort in Merrill hidden under her confused frown, Iron Bull asks in a voice gone uncharacteristically quiet, “Can you help me find him?”

“Sorry?” Merrill leans in, her ears twitching to pick up the sound.

“Nebel,” Iron Bull says, louder this time. “He’s missing.”

Hawke catches Fenris’s eye, giving him a perplexed expression like he’s looking to commiserate over the man stumbling into their personal space and talking nonsense. “Sure he didn’t just go for a walk and fall asleep in a tree?” Hawke asks. “He looks the type.”

“Could be. Dunno. Just woke up and he wasn’t around.” Iron Bull doesn’t see Hawke’s bewilderment only because his eye refuses to move from Merrill. “You willing to help me out?”

“I — “ Merrill’s tongue wets her lips. Her hand inches towards her staff, though she doesn’t grab it.

“You saw him last night, right, Fenris?” Hawke asks. “Towards the end of the celebrations.”

“Yes. By the cliffs. He seemed … erratic. Inebriated, perhaps.”

“Shit,” Iron Bull mutters. Fenris doesn’t like the way his fists tighten or his shoulders set, especially not when he keeps staring down an increasingly distressed Merrill.

“Um. So.” Merrill’s fingers tap against her knee like the wings of a bird trying to escape becoming prey. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

Thank the Maker: Merrill has some sense to her after all. This all sounds like some attempt at a sympathetic excuse to convince her to remove the one obstacle keeping Iron Bull from stealing more artifacts for the Qun. Or maybe Lavellan has run off, and if that’s the case — who are they to enable this man to chase after him?

Iron Bull nods like he anticipated the resistance. “I get it. I really, really hate to ask anything of you. But this ain’t like him.”

“No, I — I _cannot_ help.”

All eyes settle on Merrill as she shakes her head frantically. The individual muscles around Iron Bull’s furrowed brow twitch as the information settles. “What?” he asks, deadpan.

“The blood magic,” Merrill says. “It’s — it’s not going to work. Hawke was right. You can’t make a phylactery for a non-mage, and, well, no, I cannot actually track my own blood.”

Iron Bull’s nostrils flare. His eye slips shut.

“You lied,” he says.

“I needed you both to stay here! I didn’t know what else to do.” The panic fades as Merrill unrolls her wet sleeves from her elbows. “And it seemed fair.”

“Color me impressed,” Hawke says.

Fenris never expected Merrill to think of such a lie, let alone be capable enough to pull it off. “Indeed.”

Iron Bull looks at Merrill like he’s taken a sip of tea, only to be surprised by a mouth full of bitter coffee and unable to decide if he’s pleased or disappointed with the taste. “You can’t find him then,” he states.

“No,” Merrill says. “I’m sorry. I hope he’s alright.”

Considering this is the second time Merrill has managed to get a step up on the Iron Bull, Fenris wonders if any Fog Warriors would be interested in Ben-Hassrath counter-interrogation techniques taught by a flighty Dalish mage.

Iron Bull grunts. “Let me know if you see him, I guess.” The creek throws droplets in all directions as Iron Bull trudges back through it, not bothering with any goodbyes.

“Wait!” Hawke calls.

Iron Bull does. The glower he gives Hawke over his shoulder says it all: the next words out of Hawke’s mouth better be worth the time.

“Hawke,” Fenris warns. He knows what Hawke is about to say, and it’s not the Iron Bull’s time he’s going to be wasting.

“C’mon. I know you don’t actually want the guy to be dead.”

“I don’t care. He’s a spineless, pathetic — “

“I know where you took that extra bottle last night,” Hawke interrupts.

Fenris grits his jaw. Hawke’s drunken stupor must have been less deep than it seemed.

“We’ll help you look, Bull,” Hawke says. To Fenris’s surprise, Merrill nods along with him. This is ridiculous. At this rate, the sun will be down before he’s had a chance to continue looking for Solas’s cultists.

But he stills accepts Hawke’s offered hand and the lift to his feet. If the entirety of Kirkwall couldn’t prevent Hawke from accepting strange and dangerous missions to help strangers, Fenris certainly can’t either. “Will you ever stop volunteering me for things?”

“Probably not,” Hawke says, and then he rushes off to catch up to Iron Bull, who has already made it out of the creek and begun to trek mud between the trees to the north. Fenris shouldn’t be surprised. It would be too much to ask to expect the man they’re offering to help to bother waiting up for them.

* * *

“This is where I saw him last night.”

The lake below is as calm as ever, an undisturbed green that doesn’t invite viewers any deeper than its surface. The fog beginning to shroud it doesn’t offer any favors either.

Fenris resents Merrill for suggesting they search in pairs, but he can admit that this arrangement had been the only logical one; they weren’t going to force Merrill to spend any time alone with Iron Bull, and an elf with a Qunari was less likely to attract confrontation than two _shems_ wandering together.

Iron Bull doesn’t say a word to him. This entire search feels more like a waste of time with every tense minute. At least the man doesn’t dally around. Fenris has had to walk in double time to keep up with his strides.

“Hawke and I went down there the other day,” Fenris says. “There’s a path, but it’s rather indirect. A half day’s round trip if by foot.”

Iron Bull doesn’t look how a mourning lover should. He reminds Fenris more of a statue, one that looks alive out of the corner of his eye until he turns and realizes it’s nothing more than stone. Perhaps he’s given up. Or, far more likely, perhaps he’s come to the conclusion that he’s lost his greatest tool as a Ben-Hassrath and he’s going to need to find some other world leader to bed. Fenris knows that if Hawke were the one missing, this cliffside and the entire forest would be torn to shreds before Fenris wore such a resigned expression.

“He can swim, correct?” Fenris asks. Swimming with one arm must be a battle to even stay afloat, let alone to pull oneself ashore. He doubts Lavellan capable. His stature reminds Fenris of most slaves recently stolen from Dalish clans — remnants of lean muscle after the body has turned on itself, months after it’s realized that no other food is coming.

His right ear tells its own story as well: the end of it is severed so cleanly that it can’t have been an accident. The safehouses south of Tevinter are always full of rumors of these so-called _treasure hunters —_ men who prowl the woods and claim trinkets from their victims after doing Maker-knows-what — though Fenris hasn’t yet had the pleasure of killing one. A missing ear certainly doesn’t impact Lavellan’s ability to swim, though it offers one explanation of why he’d seek to drown.

Regardless, Lavellan’s health hadn’t been Fenris’s responsibility nor his concern. Neither was the fact that he’d been waving his legs off a cliff last night, intoxicated, asking strange questions with the far-off look of someone considering their place in the world.

_It’s hard, sometimes_.

It hits Fenris, staring down at the menacing crevices of rocks, that Lavellan may truly be decomposing at the bottom of the lake. It feels like he’s swallowed something wrong and it’s become lodged in the walls of his throat. Fenris doesn’t expect it, and he doesn’t like it.

He learned early in his life — or the part of it he remembers — that mourning the dead is a childish instinct that only serves to make survival even harder than it already is. The list of people that Fenris would grieve in earnest is fewer than the fingers on one hand. But maybe on a night where he’s having trouble fighting all the sentiment that a decade around Hawke has planted within him, he’d consider having a drink in Lavellan’s name.

“Yeah,” Iron Bull says to the question that Fenris has already forgotten. The Qunari never looks away from the water, and Fenris feels the sudden urge to claw that blank look off his face.

In Iron Bull, he sees the Fog Warriors. He hears their warnings of the Ben-Hassrath and stories of their brethren dragged away by silent figures in the night. He remembers the few that escaped, missing fingers and eyes and describing the empty faces of the men who’d stolen pieces of their bodies. He thinks of Merrill, spilling her secrets over tea to protect her friends, facing that stoic face that even the death of a supposed lover can’t seem to shake.

He looks to stone and wants to carve cracks in it.

“If he’s drowned, it will be a few days before the body begins to float,” Fenris says.

Iron Bull nods as if Fenris has just told him the weather will bring rain tomorrow. Fenris wonders how Lavellan would react if he knew the man he calls his lover didn’t so much as flinch at the thought of his corpse.

“Anywhere else you care to look?” he asks.

“No,” Iron Bull says, and the water rages on under the fog.

* * *

“Any luck?” Fenris asks once they’ve regrouped on the main road. Iron Bull had been determined to run off on his own until he’d been reminded that Merrill and Hawke were also spending precious time searching, and the two of them very well may have already found Iron Bull’s misplaced lover. Only then did Iron Bull rejoin Fenris, rushing on ahead at a pace there was no point in matching.

“Nope,” Hawke says. “No one’s seen him all day, apparently.”

“Well, not anyone we talked to, at least. I’m sure _somebody_ has seen him,” Merrill says as she scans her eyes over the branches above, as if he may actually be hiding up there. Although, she may know things about the sleeping habits of the Dalish that Fenris does not.

Hawke tucks his chin down as he drums his fingers against his thigh: trying to think his way out an impossible problem, as usual. Merrill is searching for answers in the trees, a strained and hopeful smile on her face. Iron Bull doesn’t look like he’s feeling much at all.

Fenris doesn’t have the patience for this silence. “I’ll be the one to say it, if no else will. Perhaps he simply grew tired of this and ran.”

No one could blame him. It’s the best case scenario, really, even if Merrill and Hawke both avert their eyes from Iron Bull at the thought. Lavellan would be alive, unharmed, and likely in a better mental state without the Qun’s manipulative tendrils in his bed. And maybe, if they’re lucky, Iron Bull will pack his camp and chase after him, eliminating two of the biggest complications of this mission in one swing.

“You two talked for a bit last night, right?” Hawke asks. “He say anything about catching the next aravel out of here?”

_It’s hard, sometimes_.

Fenris would rather Lavellan’s voice stay out of his head, but at least it’s a change from the usual cryptic whispers — or, worse, the nasal tones of Anders. Fenris could relay those disheartened words. He could tell Iron Bull all about how Lavellan had teetered on the edge of the cliff with unfocused eyes, uncertain about their relationship, and rejoice in watching what that would do to him.

He doesn’t, for some reason.

Merrill mirrors Hawke’s stance, folding in on herself as she looks to the ground with a disheartened sigh. “Do you really think he’d leave without a note? Surely he’d know we’d be worried.”

Iron Bull huffs. It’s the first sound from him since they’d left the cliff. “Oh, are you worried now? Could’ve fooled me.”

Fenris plants a foot in front of Iron Bull, inserting himself in the space between him and the other two. “Accept our help, or do not. It makes no difference to me.”

Iron Bull refuses his stare-down with a sluggish, dismissive shake of his head. He turns to looks back down the road. Fenris follows his gaze and finds himself hoping to see Lavellan, if just to put an end to this squabbling.

There’s a knock. Fenris has enough time to process how out of place that is in the middle of the woods before a cough follows the sound. He whips around to see a Dalish woman, standing in the shade of a tree, knuckles flat against its bark.

“Sorry, am I interrupting?”

The woman carries no staff. It’s a mark in her favor, but not enough to fully clean her slate of the possibility of her being a mage. Fenris glances to Merrill, expecting her to respond, but she looks just as confused as Hawke.

Surprisingly, Iron Bull is the one to give a bow of the head. “Marelwyn.”

“Heya, Bull. I didn’t see you this morning.”

“Got some stuff going on,” Iron Bull says.

The shifts her weight and gaze with all the unease that a Dalish elf would be expected to have in the presence of a giant, irritable Qunari. But Iron Bull is the one she stands close to, and Fenris, Hawke, and Merrill are the ones she eyes with wariness. Could she be Qunari as well? One of the vallaslin-bearing spies that Iron Bull had brazenly admitted the Qun would send?

“Right. I hope this isn’t related, but …“ Marelwyn slides a hand into her pocket and then hesitates. Fenris braces himself for a smoke bomb or a throwing knife; it would explain what she’s fiddling with under the cloth. Instead, she pulls out a necklace, bound with leather cord, and holds it out to Iron Bull. “I found this. I couldn’t help but notice you wear the other half.”

Fenris glances to the tooth in the center of Iron Bull’s sternum: some sort of war trophy or Qunari mark of honor, he’d assumed. The necklace that Marelwyn cups in her hands is smaller, the cord less weather-worn, but it’s easy to see from the ridges in the bone that the two pieces would fit together to form one.

She looks at Iron Bull with a different expression in every facial feature, the wavering mess that happens when someone is trying desperately to avoid saying what they’re thinking. She whispers, “It’s Nebel’s, isn’t it?”

Not a trophy, then; or at least not in the ways Fenris had expected. He can’t help but glance at the red favor wrapped around his sword’s hilt, the ribbon that he runs between his fingers both when the world seems to be crumbling and when he’s overwhelmed by everything he’s thankful for. He’d attributed Iron Bull’s fidgeting with his necklace to be a show of intimidation; a reminder of the powerful creatures he’d bested in the past. But, perhaps it was — something else. When Fenris looks up, Hawke is staring at the red favor as well.

Iron Bull curls his fingers around the tooth and lifts it out of Marelwyn hand like it’s made of glass, not the indestructible bone of a fire-born creature. “Where did you find this?”

“By the cliffs, not far from the ceremony space. Want me to show you?”

“No,” Iron Bull says with the same distance in his voice as he’d had when staring into the rocks and mist. His demeanor isn’t unlike the surface of that water — calm, unshifting, swallowing the stones Fenris and Marelwyn throw into it without so much as a ripple.

“Thank you,” Merrill says, offering Marelwyn a smile and a touch of fingers against her arm. “You may want to leave now.”

Marelwyn gives Iron Bull one last look, as if she might see anything but a fog there. “Be well, friends,” she says, before leaving them alone with this stifling silence.

Fenris will not be the first to speak. Anything he could say would be a platitude, and if their roles were reversed — if, Maker forbid, it were Hawke’s sword or locket they’d found placed on the edge of a cliff — Iron Bull’s sympathy would be the last thing he’d want. Down the ridge where the tooth was once cleaved in two, Iron Bull gently trails his thumb like Hawke so often does along Fenris’s own cheek. Otherwise, he doesn’t move.

“Guess he did leave a note,” Hawke says, and really, he ought to know better. Witty quips with the Arishok had landed Hawke in a duel to the death; Fenris can’t imagine why Hawke would think attempting one now would bring any better results.

Fenris accepts that a platitude is the best he can offer to balance out Hawke’s dark jest. “You have my sympathy,” he mumbles.

“Oh, Creators. Iron Bull, I’m — I’m so sorry,” Merrill says, and Fenris finds himself relieved: when she hadn’t reacted to the necklace, he’d worried that he’d have to be the one to explain the unsaid.

Iron Bull’s hand engulfs the tooth. The cord hangs between his fingers, swaying softly in the breeze. It reminds Fenris of the time he’d walked in on another slave standing on a chair, fashioning the curtain pulls into a loop that had swung left and right in time with the pristine golden clock behind them.

Fenris hadn’t stopped her either.

“He wouldn’t,” Iron Bull says, a rumble that snaps Fenris out of his thoughts.

“Hey, uh — putting differences aside, for a second — “ Hawke coughs, like the attempt at sympathy is caught in his throat without the usual humor to wash it down. “I’m sorry. We’ve all lost people. I know it’s not easy.” He sighs. One shoulder bounces in a half-hearted shrug. “It was probably quick, at least.”

There it is. Hawke can only manage so much sincerity. Not that it’s fake, in any way — it took Fenris a while to figure out that in a family of apostates and refugees, Hawke’s humor sometimes was the only thing keeping them afloat.

“It’s best not to deny it for long,” Fenris says.

Iron Bull whirls around. If the tooth had been from anything but a dragon, it would be shattered under the strength of his fist. “He said he wouldn’t, so he didn’t, alright?” He turns his fury on Hawke, who flinches with shock, not fear. “You think this is funny, do you?”

Hawke frantically shakes his head and fixes his mouth into a placating smile. “No, of course we don’t.“

Merrill clasps her staff like it’s the one thing holding her up. “This is horrible. I can’t believe — this isn’t our faults, right?”

Iron Bull looks seconds away from storming off, but even Fenris doesn’t know where he’d go. There’s no more searching to be done. An unwanted thought comes to Fenris: he imagines, briefly, how it had felt — arms cast open wide, the wind billowing from below like hands trying to shove him back, and then that final moment, like missing a step on a winding case of stairs.

To push out the image, Fenris offers, “I would not mind retrieving the body.”

Merrill buries her face in her hands. “Gods. First, Ghilanna. Then that hunting accident. And now — ” She lets out a muffled, anguished moan from the back of her throat. “The Arlathvhen isn’t meant to be like this.”

Fenris wonders how the Dalish will mourn Lavellan, if they will at all. Ironically, the Andrastians may make more of a show of their memorials — their supposed Herald, having completed all the Maker sent him to do, at last finding peace in the form of a head split open on a rock or a bloated body feeding the fish of a muddy lake. He’s sure the world will find it rather romantic, a tragedy befitting the times, and not the sickening thing that it is.

Iron Bull turns back to them. “What hunting accident?”

“Keeper Taelaran told me this morning,” Merrill says. “I suppose you wouldn’t have heard. Someone’s trap misfired — and, well, they were distracted, quite understandably, by everything yesterday. Thankfully, they lived, but the poor man lost an eye.”

“An eye?” Iron Bull echoes.

“Better that than a few inches lower, I guess,” Hawke says as he massages his own throat. “Fuck. This really is a mess.”

“Where is this person?” Iron Bull says, stepping forward to loom over Merrill.

Merrill’s voice steadies as she raises her face from her hands. Searching for answers to the barrage of questions at least serves to calm her down. “He’s still being treated, last I heard. Some of the Firsts are taking care of him.”

“Take me there.”

* * *

To both great fortune and misfortune, the man is alone. In the center secluded campsite, a steaming teapot hangs above a weak campfire, giving off a fragrance so bitter it makes Fenris’s eyes water. There’s a blanket covered in mortars filled with poultices of varying shades of green. From within one of the four tents, there’s the unmistakable sound of labored breathing.

Hawke herds the group back away from the campsite before Iron Bull can barge straight into the tent. He whispers, “Listen, I know you probably feel a kinship with this guy, but do we really need to see him right now? Aren’t there, uh, _other_ things we should be taking care of?” Hawke chuckles nervously. “He’s still gonna be missing an eye tomorrow.”

“Your paranoia is unwarranted,” Fenris says to Iron Bull, keenly aware of the irony.

“The poor thing is already suffering. Oh, maybe we should bring flowers? That might be nice,” Merrill muses, and then begins scanning the ground. The tangled roots and thorny shrubs must not meet her standards.

“Think about it. What can magic not heal? You can fix broken bones, stab wounds — I’ve seen a mage fix up a man whose intestines were falling out.” Iron Bull raises a finger and taps it against his eyepatch twice. “But you can’t fix an eye.”

“I didn’t think you such a desperate man,” Fenris chides. “You’re looking for any explanation other than the obvious.”

“My kadan is a smarter man than you give him credit for.”

Hawke scratches the underside of his chin. The contemplative look on his face tells Fenris he’s giving the idea too much credence already. “You think it was a message?” Hawke asks.

“This is a waste of time,” Fenris says.

“Merrill, you mind fetching him?” Iron Bull asks. “Might scare him less if you’re the one popping your head in.”

Merrill chews her cheek with so much force that Fenris is surprised she doesn’t tear a hole in it. “Sure,” she eventually says. “But we only want to check on him, right?”

“Let’s see how things go, shall we?”

Merrill steps over to the tent on light feet. She bows to pluck a single sprig of a leafy herb from the ground; there’s a red berry on it, which is as close to a flower as Fenris has seen all week.

“Hello?” Merrill calls. When there’s only a grunt in response, she ducks her head into the tent. “Aneth a — oh. It’s you.”

From within, Fenris hears a cranky, muffled voice. “What are you doing here? I’m trying to rest.”

“Oh, we just … well, we wanted to check on — “

“ _We?_ ”

A man shoves past Merrill to emerge from the tent. Unbloodied bandages cover his left eye, from the brow to where his cheek sags under his nose. Beyond that, he appears unscathed.

Fenris recognizes him immediately: he’s the archer who had lunged for Merrill and Lavellan at the opening ceremonies; the man who decried them as traitors. He wears dull grey leathers from his scarred neck to his boots, and his hair is black and curly, save for a few patchy spots at his hairline. He’s got the musculature of a man who’s had no choice but to use his bow daily for the past fifty-or-so odd years of his life. In a way, he reminds Fenris of Gamlen; that is, if Gamlen ever bothered to lift a finger to help his family. Fenris had made sure to commit both his name and face to memory, as anyone making a scene automatically earned a spot in his mental list of people to keep an eye on. So his name is —

“What’s going on here?” The archer demands.

Hawke’s face twists at the sight of the expansive bandages. “Rough night, huh?”

“Yes. Clearly.” The archer — it was something like _Den_ or _Thal;_ Fenris can hear the name echoing in the back of his head — jabs a finger in Merrill’s direction. “What were you thinking bringing these shem here?”

“It was Dhaven, correct?” she asks. “You don’t need to worry. They are friends.”

_Dhaven_. Yes, that was it. It must have been the threat of impending battle fogging Fenris’s recollection. Something he’d made an intentional effort to memorize couldn’t leave him so easily.

Dhaven bends and retrieves his bow and quiver. Fenris notes the shifted leather of his boot as well. Perhaps he is acting a bit suspicious. Fenris would too if he was suddenly ambushed by a group like this.

“To you, perhaps they are,” Dhaven says. “But to the rest of us? Did you even think what could happen if the world finds out we’re _not_ in Halamshiral?”

Merrill steps back to take her place beside Fenris again. “Please, we didn’t come to argue — “

The string of Dhaven’s bow vibrates from the tremors in his fingers. “This is our problem. We’re so desperate for numbers that we cow away from punishing even the most vicious, heedless, stupid — “

“ _Enough_ ,” Iron Bull bellows as his foot pounds the ground; the sounds meld into a roar that echoes through the campsite. He closes the space between him and Dhaven, even as Dhaven stumbles and trips backwards to preserve it. “Have you seen Lavellan?”

“Lavellan?”

Hawke’s face darkens at Dhaven’s ignorance. “You know, the Inquisitor? You kinda, well, screamed at him a few days ago? Pretty similar to what you just did, actually.”

“No. I have not seen him. Not since that stunt he pulled yesterday.”

“Right,” Hawke drawls. “And how’d that make you feel, buddy?”

Dhaven recovers his composure after the shock of Iron Bull charging at him scared it off. “What’s the point of this? Where’s Liamaya?”

“She probably figured you were a big boy who could take care of himself for a few minutes,” Hawke says.

With this particular band of people, there wasn’t any chance of this encounter staying friendly long. Even as Iron Bull looks ready to bring his axe down upon Dhaven, Merrill steps between the two and rests a hand on Iron Bull’s arm. “We only wanted to talk, right? There’s no need for all of this.”

Fenris prepares to do what’s necessary if the Qunari lays a finger on her. But Iron Bull only peers at her hand for a second before gently prying it away. He steps past her without a word.

“I will ask you again,” he says. “Have you seen Lavellan?”

Dhaven looks over his shoulder, then back to Merrill. These sparse trees won’t offer enough cover against a mage. He has to know that his only option at this point is to talk his way out.

“I … well.” Dhaven looks up at a passing gray cloud as he tucks his hands into his armpits. “In hindsight — I hope not, but — so, I’m not sure it was him. I doubt it was, to be quite honest. But last night I saw someone over to the west, near the cliffs. Just standing there. At the time I thought it was a woman, but … well, you’ve seen him.”

Fenris looks to Iron Bull for a reaction, but nothing the man says causes any shift in his angered, impatient expression. The cliff where Fenris has twice now encountered Lavellan is indeed to the west; there may be more truth to this than Fenris had assumed from Dhaven’s anxious twitches.

“I called out to them, but they ignored me,” he continues. “I didn’t want to get any closer, in case they’d get scared and slip, or something. I was half-certain it was a spirit.”

Fenris asks, “And it didn’t occur to you to tell anybody else? A spirit in your midst wasn’t worth sharing?”

“I did, actually. What sort of person do you think I am? _I_ actually care about our safety.” Dhaven gives Merrill a sneer — a rather cheeky move, considering his position. “But when we went back, whoever it was had disappeared. I figured they’d just gone to bed.”

“Bold assumption,” Hawke says.

“I know. I didn’t want to believe — I’m proud of who I am. I know that others are not, but — it’s hard for me to imagine making that choice. I didn’t think anyone would do that, not here.” Dhaven averts his eye to the ground and drops his voice into a solemn whisper. “But if he’s missing — you may want check the cliffs.”

Fenris believes it. A conscience guilty of inaction would explain the man’s overstrung nerves. Regardless, the end result remains the same; Lavellan is dead, and the body won’t be found for days.

Merrill looks like she may cry. Iron Bull’s face offers nothing as he stares down at Dhaven. As he always does when there’s no answers to be found, Fenris looks to Hawke. He finds golden brown eyes already on him. Why? Hawke looks strangely concerned — shouldn’t he be looking at Iron Bull like that, waiting for him to lash out? Hawke has no reason to be worried for Fenris, just as Fenris has no reason to be sad. He never liked Lavellan, and if there’s any pity there for Iron Bull, it’s only because Fenris can so easily picture himself in that position. Iron Bull and Lavellan’s relationship had never been real anyways.

For some reason, Hawke reaches for Fenris’s hand. Fenris snatches his wrist away on instinct; vulnerability will do nothing for this situation. He turns back to Hawke with an apology on his lips, and sees a figure looming behind him, white and red and frozen stiff, like an statue of Andraste watching over a congregation.

Fenris glares at the blonde mage. Blood drips from the feathers on his shoulders onto Hawke’s head, trickling from his scalp down his freckled cheeks. Anders’s empty eyes stay fixed on Fenris.

_Leave,_ Fenris thinks. _Now._ The ghost can’t roll its eyes without pupils, but Fenris gets the idea from the movement of its brows.

It’s not real. It still lingers too close to Hawke for his liking.

Fenris’s head pounds. There’s movement to his left — out of his pocket, Iron Bull pulls out the other necklace and holds it in front of him. In his hands, it looks small, but it must have been heavy around an elf’s neck. He wraps his fingers around it and then lifts it over his head, weaving his horns through it until it rests against his chest, the two halves hanging together as one.

Fenris feels something stuck in his chest and something slimy climbing up his throat, like a seed mis-swallowed long ago that’s begun to sprout. Anders’s lips move in what Fenris knows must be snide commentary, but he can’t make out any of his words.

“Iron Bull — “ Fenris starts, though he doesn’t know where he plans to end.

With one hand, Iron Bull grabs Dhaven by the hair and throws him to the ground. Dhaven collapses with a cry, muffled by the force of Iron Bull shoving the heel of his boot between his shoulders.

“You are a shit liar,” Iron Bull growls. “Where the _fuck_ is he?”


	14. Chapter 14

With only the strength of his fingers between him and the expanse of alarmingly sharp rocks below, Nebel wishes for the hundredth time in his life that he were a mage. He wouldn’t need to be a great one. One element would be enough. It could be the ability to move stone, or ice, or even just to get this wind to stop blowing like some god out there has been dying to see this cliff decorated in a new shade of red.

He climbs, the best that he can. He considers screaming, but the chance of someone coming to save him are far slimmer than the chance that whomever pushed him would come back to finish the job. He shouldn’t have let a single friendly conversation with Fenris coax him into giving the well his full attention, begging it for answers beyond the split-second image of the man’s markings lit up like stars. It had been lovely, but not helpful — and as he’d asked for more, he hadn’t noticed the sounds of someone come up behind him until he’d felt hands on his back, pushing him into open air.

He’d been lucky there was a jut in the rocks only ten feet below. His heart still beats with the speed of a herd of halla fleeing a trap gone wrong, even as his legs find footing in the stones. If he survives this, he’s going to learn to climb again. He’ll accept Grim’s silent offers to teach him how to grapple properly. He’ll take care of his body, eat the meals Bull fetches until the bowl is clean, work the muscles in his arm until they don’t strain at every attempt to lift the weight of his legs.

He’ll do better. He just needs to get over this ledge first.

In the cacophony of drums, Nebel can’t hear if his attacker has left yet. It’s rather telling that they didn’t stick around to look over the edge, Nebel thinks as his hand feels the soft relief of grass and his legs find steady perches. Even as he’d caught that saving grace of a ledge, Nebel had kept his scream going, doing the best he could to gradually muffle the sound. Maybe they bought it, believing what he thought was a rather poor mimicry of falling. Or maybe they’re squeamish and afraid of the sight of a corpse they had a part in creating.

He digs his fingers into the dirt. When he’s up, he’ll need to run. He’ll get to Bull, wake him up, he won’t even need to explain what’s happened before Bull will be off, ready to — _shit_. What if they’ve gone after Bull as well? What if it wasn’t just him they were after, what if it was one of Solas’s —

There’s no time. He takes one last breath and pulls himself over the edge.

He’s still there. A man stands twenty paces away, a nauseated expression on his face that turns to shock as soon as Nebel meets his eyes. While Nebel gets to his feet, the man stares at him with the same wonder and fear that is usually reserved for people’s first times seeing a rift.

“What the — “ The man exclaims, and Nebel realizes he knows exactly who this is. It’s that same man, Dhaven — the one who had been on the verge of attacking both him and Merrill at the opening ceremonies. Hopefully Nebel is the only one he’s gone after; although, if he’d gone after Merrill first, there’s little chance he would be standing here now.

It’s when Nebel takes a side step, hand reaching for his weapon, that Dhaven gathers his composure. Nebel regrets not acting more like a spirit escaped from the Fade; it could have bought him another precious few steps before Dhaven began to charge for him.

With no longer than ten seconds to think, Nebel does two things: most importantly, he pulls his knife from his belt and grips it with his teeth. He then grabs the tooth around his neck, yanks it over his head, and throws it to the ground. As he switches his knife to his hand, he stomps the necklace into the ground until the tooth stands, half-buried in the dirt. He doesn’t expect this to end well. If he’s lucky, the necklace will act as a clue to where to look. If he’s not, it will make a fine tombstone.

Nebel rushes at him. Any amount of space between him and the cliff increases his chance of survival tenfold. But the time it took to prepare has given Dhaven too much ground, and Nebel finds his only option is diving to the ground to his left and hoping that Dhaven will be carrying to much momentum to stop. Nebel rolls backwards over his shoulder and springs to his feet, only to find Dhaven’s raging face inches from his own.

Dhaven tackles him. Nebel’s dagger spins as it falls away, and his desperate grab for it gives Dhaven a chance to pin his wrist into the dirt beside his head. Nebel tries to flip over onto his stomach, hoping the force will be enough to free his hand, but Dhaven is surprisingly sturdy for a hunter. He straddles Nebel’s torso, bearing down his weight so that he can’t even make it to his side. Fighting from his back is Nebel’s least favorite disadvantage, but he’s managed it before and he’ll manage it now

Nebel thrashes every limb, using every dirty trick he knows to jam his legs into Dhaven’s balls or kneecaps, but he can’t seem to connect. Dhaven’s Nebel never thought he’d miss the dust of the desert, where the sand could always be kicked up into someone’s face for a few seconds of blindness. His usual backup of a burst of spit in the eye doesn’t work either — the elfroot has left his mouth too dry to produce more than a light spray. Dhaven’s grip on his wrist doesn’t let up either, and he unfortunately notices Nebel sucking in a breath, readying himself to scream until every elf in the area is upon them. He gets one measly yelp out before Dhaven makes a fist in the ground, and then Nebel finds his mouth stuffed with dirt and a rough hand pressed over his jaw.

The taste is vile, like a barrel of ale that no one’s realized a family of rodents have died in. If he didn’t fear choking on his own vomit, Nebel would swallow it down and scream until he was out of air. Fuck. He needs to get out of here, _now_. The cliff is only a few feet away, and one wrong move could have them both tumbling — that’s not a bad idea, actually. He flings his legs up and around Dhaven’s waist, keeping his ankles locked together as he pulls Dhaven in close, chest to chest. If Nebel’s going down, he’s taking this asshole with him.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Dhaven hisses, keeping his voice low as laughter and song rings from the apprentices’ showcase behind them.

Nebel kicks at Dhaven’s back and flails his neck and hips until Dhaven is snarling and too focused on restraining him to notice Nebel’s fingers stretching to the side.

Metal. Nebel’s index and middle fingers squeeze the tip of the blade and twist it around, slicing the edges of his knuckles, until the hilt hits his palm. He strikes. There’s no time to think, to get a decent grip, to aim his attack — he just thrusts his palm up, dagger balanced in the center of it, pushing until he feels the friction of flesh around his blade.

“Agh!” Dhaven cries out, but the pain of a stab wound in his wrist still isn’t enough to get his to lift either of his hands. Every muscle in Nebel’s arm strains as he pushes harder, deeper, forcing the knife into muscle until finally Dhaven’s other hand releases Nebel’s mouth and flies to the knife. Nebel spits out the soil that’s congealed into a ball on his tongue. Clumps of it stick to his molars. Well, he would have preferred his wrist free to his mouth, but that’s alright. He can work with this.

Nebel rolls his body towards his hand, and before Dhaven can tear the dagger away again, Nebel bears his teeth down on the hilt. He clenches his jaw, eyes shut, and jerks his head back. The knife comes loose from Dhaven’s wrist, and with it comes a projectile spray of blood. Dhaven screams and tries to pull away, but Nebel clings his legs even tighter around his waist.

Nebel is going to lose this fight. Survival is beginning to look like a lofty goal, but revenge may still be possible. From this angle, with only his teeth as leverage, Nebel won’t be able to pierce Dhaven’s heart. His neck would be a certain kill, but Dhaven keeps his chin tucked down with that same stubborn strength that’s allowed him to keep Nebel’s wrist pinned so long. Cuts on his face and chest could be lethal, but any decent mage he runs to could heal those without even a trace of a scar. And in the end, Nebel wants to leave a message.

He twists his head to the side and slams it upwards. His teeth chatter as the pressure pulls at every bone in his jaw, only finding relief once the dagger collides with its target and he can finally let go.

Dhaven’s eye erupts. The liquid from within splatters across Nebel’s face, stinging in his own eyes, salty on his tongue. He expected more blood. As the eye loses its shape, deflating into an empty shell, he suddenly understands why Bull avoids inflicting this on anyone else.

After all, an eye can’t be healed.

“You fucking _bitch_.”

Dhaven grabs blindly for any part of Nebel he can get his hands on. From below, Nebel can only dodge twice before Dhaven gets a grip on his neck, and once he does, he doesn’t relent. He slams Nebel’s head to the ground with the speed a child eager to hurt the thing that’s bitten them, pounding again and again until Nebel sees greens and yellows and eventually only white. His legs fall, limp. Nebel feels himself lifted from the dirt, head throbbing, one calloused hand on his wrist and another squeezing the last bits of air from him.

The white fades enough for Nebel to look down and see the lake below, black tides pushing against the rocks, and oh, it’s going to be a long fall. From the grip on his throat, Nebel is certain it’s cruelty, not hesitation, that makes Dhaven pause, letting him dangle over the edge with nothing under his feet. Nebel opens his mouth to plead, but then he looks at Dhaven, the last remains of an empty eyeball hanging down his face, and knows there’s nothing he can say.

He hopes to land in the water.

* * *

“He’s dead,” Dhaven cries from beneath Iron Bull’s boot. “He’s dead. I’m so sorry.”

The confession stops Hawke’s mad dash towards Iron Bull like an ice spell. Dhaven’s eye squeezes shut in preparation for a blow that doesn’t come.

So, perhaps it was a message.

Fenris doesn’t see the blood vanish from Hawke’s forehead; he simply blinks, and it’s gone. He tries to remain inconspicuous as he scans the tree branches for any sign of Anders, but the ghost seems to have returned to whatever hellish place it came from. That … is something Fenris can worry about later. Fenris resists the urge to wipe clean Hawke’s already spotless forehead while Dhaven begins chokes on his spittle.

Iron Bull seems content to wait for Dhaven to continue his confession, using the silence as a wedge to drive out answers. Hawke has never been like that though, so Fenris is unsurprised when he asks, “What did you do?”

“He attacked me, he came at me out of nowhere — “ Dhaven’s chest heaves with panic. He digs up ten little pockets of dirt with his flexing fingers. “Please, I didn’t want to kill him, but he got my eye and I had to do _something_ to get him off me — and he fell. Please, trust me, I didn’t want to push him, but I had no choice, you have to believe me — “

A shift in Iron Bull’s weight cuts him off. “Tell one more lie and it _will_ be your last.”

“Please, please don’t kill me. It was a mistake.”

“Don’t worry. I will give you plenty of time to explain your _mistake_ later.” Iron Bull begins to dig through his pack, never once lifting his boot from where Dhaven seems to be crumbling beneath it.

Merrill takes a step closer, her staff giving off just enough light to bathe both her and Iron Bull in green. Iron Bull looks at the gem like it’s a ray of sun irritating his eyes. He squints as Merrill says, “You can’t hurt him, Iron Bull.”

“Say that again?”

“If you try to kill him, I will stop you.”

“So burning two men alive is fine, but this is over the line?”

Merrill falters, but her magic does not. The green still glows as Iron Bull stares her down, though she says nothing as he pulls out a square, silken black cloth and ties it around Dhaven’s mouth, muffling his protests and cries. Only once it’s knotted does Iron Bull raise his heel from Dhaven’s back and allow him space to breathe.

“Where are you going?” Hawke asks as Iron Bull begins to walk away. “You can’t leave us to watch him, I’m not doing that again — “

Iron Bull nods like Hawke has raised a pertinent issue that indeed deserves addressing. But when he returns to them, shifting the axe off his back, it’s obvious his solution is not going to be the one Hawke intends. Metal glints off the sunlight as both of Iron Bull’s hands lift his axe above his head in a line exactly perpendicular to Dhaven’s spine.

Dhaven screams, and even through the cloth, the sound carries that distinct gargling quality of someone who knows they’re about to die. Merrill and Hawke both lunge for Iron Bull, but neither of them can stop him in time. Iron Bull spears the hilt of the axe down upon Dhaven’s thigh, piercing no flesh but bending the leg into a shape it was never meant to take.

“There,” Iron Bull says. “Now he won’t run.”

It’s not the crunch of bone that echoes through Fenris’s head, nor the muffled sobs that wrack Dhaven’s body; it’s the soft, satisfied grunt that Iron Bull gives as he returns his axe to his back that makes Fenris go cold. This brutality is nothing new to him — he’s both experienced and inflicted worse — but when he looks at Iron Bull, staring down at the broken leg like it’s a puzzle he’s expertly solved, Fenris suddenly understands why his companions watch at him with such discomfort after he casually wipes the remains of a heart off his hands.

“Answer us,” Fenris forces himself to say to Iron Bull’s retreating back. “Where are you going?”

Iron Bull pauses. Over his shoulder, he meets Fenris’s eyes with a gaze that would make anyone else shrink — but Fenris shrinks for no one. The Qunari breaks into a smile.

And like a pommel dropped on bone, he says: “I’m bringing Nebel back.”

* * *

Nebel stuffs two more leaves between his molars and chews. They taste like copper and bitter roots — oh _fuck,_ that’s not right. They should taste like citrus, shouldn’t they? Surely he couldn’t have mistaken the plant for something else. He’d spent the entire year of the Inquisition brewing them into tea, often the only thing keeping him on his feet, there’s no way he could have — ah. It’s blood. He plugs the newly empty gum socket with his tongue, but it makes no difference. His cheek is bleeding too. He regrets taking all that riverweed.

But as long as he stays awake, he can handle a little blood. _Not like there’s much choice,_ he muses as he holds the glass vial up to his eyes and gives it a shake. The green within shimmers even in the dim light of the cave — or that could be his concussion. There’s really no telling. He’s just glad that the lake water doesn’t seem to have tainted the antidote.

None of this should surprise him anymore. It had been just his luck that after climbing the rocks and coughing up what must have been an entire lung’s worth of water, he’d looked up to see glowing yellow eyes staring right back at him. He knows he’s got at least one broken rib, but there’s no telling if that came from the fall, the bastard who tried to kill him, or the deepstalker that had taken a bite from his hip and thrown him into the wall of the cave. He’s really making the most of this last batch of healing potions.

He crawls to the creature’s corpse and pulls his knife from the rotten thing’s belly. The numbness hasn’t set it in yet. Twenty minutes before it reaches his limbs; forty before it hits his heart. That excursion with Bull to the deepstalker cave had seemed reckless at the time, but in hindsight, he’s grateful he gave in to that moment of impulsiveness. The half-refined antidote had still been tucked in one of the inner pockets of his coat, and — thank the Creators, thank the Maker, thank any blighted thing that might be listening — it hadn’t smashed open when he’d hit the water. Finding the energy leaves in the same pocket had been one more blessing from whatever god had decided they weren’t yet bored of his struggling.

Nebel hovers his knife over the vial and gives it a flick. Two drops of blood fall into the vial like seeds into a cooking pot left under a maple tree — too dense to dissolve but too slick to spoon out. The blood is purple and as thick as freshly tapped sap. As the droplets refuse to mix with the rest of the liquid, he feels a sudden sympathy for the deepstalkers; with blood that heavy, every movement must feel as exhausting as each of his own does now. Dissolving it will take heat, a flame, a focused beam of light — in the damp cave filled with fog, he has no options.

He shakes it instead. The potion foams. The blood climbs along the edge of the glass and sinks back down, unbothered. This won’t be enough. This won’t be enough. This won’t be enough.

It has to be. He can’t die here, alone and in the dark, forgotten until months from now when a flood raises the water high enough to drag his unrecognizable body out of the cave. This stubborn bit of blood won’t be what claims him. As darkness frames his vision, he prays that the rhythm in his wrist becomes routine enough that he’ll continue it even once the coming delirium steals away his thoughts.

* * *

“Don’t get in my way.”

Hawke pays the warning no mind, but Iron Bull is one of the only men capable of side-stepping his outspread arms with ease. “Are you serious? It’s gonna take you hours to get down there, and we’re knee-high in shit up here. I get what you’re feeling, Bull, trust me — but come on, use your head.“

“It will be a waste of time to search now. It is better to wait,” Fenris says. “Give it three days, and he will float.”

It’s only when Merrill and Hawke both cringe that Fenris considers his words. Said to anyone else, they would be cruel, but Fenris sees no point in sparing a Ben-Hassrath’s feelings with minced words. If the propaganda of the Qun is true, there shouldn’t be any feelings left there to hurt. And when Iron Bull steps towards Fenris and looks down his nose at him, the anger in his eye truly isn’t the white, molten rage of someone who’s lost the person they supposedly value most. It’s the cold, refined steel of a blade ready to strike.

“He’s _alive_ and I’m finding him.”

Iron Bull’s breath falls on Fenris’s wide-open mouth. He can’t possibly believe that. No one person could hold so much denial, especially not someone who’s been through the hell of Seheron. Iron Bull should know the mortal limits of the body better than anyone.

“Oh, Iron Bull,” Merrill whispers. Even her optimism can’t carry such a heavy refusal of the truth.

“Give it a few days, and I’ll help you find him, alright?” Hawke says. “But if you go now, _we_ get to decide what to do with this guy. We’re not holding a captive for days while you go on some goose chase.”

Dhaven chokes on whatever is in his mouth. Spits, tears, blood, a tooth — Fenris would believe any of it, after Iron Bull’s outburst. As Iron Bull sets his axe against one of the few trees in his line of sight, a tremor wracks Dhaven’s entire body.

“I don’t need days,” Iron Bull says. “I’m taking the cliffs.”

Hawke balks. “What? You couldn’t even climb those on a sunny day, let alone in this blighted mess.”

Iron Bull doesn’t acknowledge Hawke’s incredibly valid point. He continues emptying his pockets and bag of anything that may weigh him down, though Fenris notices he doesn’t cast aside the vials of poultices and potions. Iron Bull is certainly going to need those, even if it’s not for the person he expects.

The sound of wood knocking against itself pulls Fenris’s attention away. “I’ll help you,” Merrill says, resting her own staff against a tree. “I can make footholds, here and there. I’d make a staircase if I could, but — ”

“Merrill — “ Hawke interrupts.

“Great,” Iron Bull says. “Let’s go.”

“Wait — “ Hawke steps over to attempt to block Merrill as well, but Hawke knows better than to try to physically hold her back from an idea.

“I’m going as well,” Fenris says as he sets his sword beside the axe.

“Fenris, seriously?”

Lavellan is dead. Fenris can’t change that. But he’s seen what men like Iron Bull do when their reality shifts, when they come face to face with the harsh truth of the world and can’t deny it any longer. They go mad, they lash out; they think that by breaking whatever is around them, they can prevent themselves from breaking. When Iron Bull gets down to the water and finds a corpse, he’s going to lose it on the closest thing he can snap in two. Fenris doesn’t intend for that to be Merrill.

Hawke throws his hands in the air when Fenris gives him a nod instead of backing down. “Fine. Go. I’m used to being babysitter at this point. Guess I’ll just … make another spoon, or something.”

Hawke gestures down to the array of wooden utensils and animal models he’s whittled into being. There’s no reason Hawke couldn’t go instead, really, but Fenris isn’t going to volunteer him for a trip down a cliff, not after all the times Hawke had nearly fallen to his death after trying to scale the walls of his own mansion.

Dhaven whimpers. If he were any capable of reading people, he’d know that Hawke is by far the most merciful caretaker of them all. Iron Bull gives Fenris a cold glance, as if he’d been the one to make such a pitiful noise.

“Come or don’t, I don’t give a shit,” Iron Bull says. “But you _will not_ slow me down.”

* * *

Nebel wakes up to a voice in the cave. The surprise that rushes precious blood to his head isn’t that there’s someone else here, but that he’s awoken at all. That last time had felt so final — the darkness inescapable, the call of the void so strong that it drowned out all pain. Maybe he’d been naive to think death would feel so pleasant.

“Hello, dear. Please tell me you’re there,” the voice continues.

He finds his fingers, and though it feels like moving through a pit of wet sand, they twitch under his command. Okay. The antidote has worked, to an extent. The poison could still take him, but at least he won’t have to watch that from within a powerless, numb body.

Sitting up isn’t going to be possible, nor is rolling over onto his back. His body regrets the choice to lay on his right side; pressure on the broken ribs has done its job to keep him awake — mostly — but now he’s stuck here, unable to escape the ache interfering with his ability to form coherent thoughts.

“Not available, hmm? Well, that’s your loss — “

The durgen’dirth. Nebel wishes he had remembered it earlier, back when calling for help still felt like it could have made a difference. Not that Dorian could do much of anything from across the world. Luckily, Nebel’s arm still has the strength to reach within his jacket and pull out the stone. He can’t seem to form a fist, but resting it on his hand is enough to envelop the cave in a soft light. It looks like the sunrise, all but the warmest shades of pink filtered through the fog — but that had happened hours ago, a terrible reminder that time was in fact continuing to pass. Making it to sunset as well would be a welcome surprise.

“I’m here,” Nebel manages to say. The sound is distant; he can’t tell if it’s his voice fighting against shrunken lungs or if water has filled his ears.

“Oh. Good. I hope you are well.” Dorian’s voice sounds like chimes, harmonizing with the drops of water that fall from the ceiling in a rhythm Nebel can’t find the pattern in. “Would you care to hear about the latest rumor Tyberius has attempted to spread about me? Nothing to worry about there, except perhaps the expanding void between his ears consuming us all.”

Has Bull realized he’s gone yet? Bull is the smartest man that Nebel knows, but his intelligence isn’t magic. There’s no way he would think to search some deepstalker den or even notice it in the first place. Not with all this fog, with the water rising, with the distance between here and the ceremonies. Maybe he has noticed his absence, but he’s assumed Nebel has left on his own or chosen to —

Right. The durgen’dirth _._ Dorian had asked if he was around, hadn’t he?

“I’m here,” Nebel whispers.

There’s a pause. Maybe the crystal’s power can’t reach through the wall of the cave — no, that’s not right, the sound travels through the Fade, not this world.

“Excuse me? Are you alright?” Dorian waits. Nebel doesn’t find the words in time before Dorian begins again. “Okay, something is definitely wrong. Will you tell me _now_ what’s going on?”

There’s no point hiding it. He may as well find out now. “I’m dying, Dorian”

“Dying of — what, laughter, yes? Overbearing Qunari affections?”

“Poison. Maybe. The blood-loss might get me first.” Nebel cranes his head to look down at his hip, where the deepstalker’s bite has swollen into a ring. The movement makes him cough. “I kind of think I’m drowning too.”

Dorian lets out a single note of a dry laugh. “You’ve had some dreadful jokes in the past, but this may win the lot. This is just some more weird Dalish humor that I don’t understand, right?”

“Hah. Yeah.” Shrugging it all off as a joke is fine by Nebel, if it means an easier conversation.

“Nebel?”

All the bombast drains out of Dorian’s voice, leaving behind only an uncertain young man wandering in the dark, afraid of what he’ll see when he lights his torch. Nebel has heard Dorian call his name like this only once before: after he’d stumbled out of the eluvian, arm turning to ash with every step. Hearing it again, here in this cave where he doesn’t even have Bull’s arms to fall into this time — it strikes a blow at the part of him trying to remain calm.

“Sorry,” Nebel says. “I don’t know how much more I’ve got in me.”

“What’s happened?”

Nebel takes a breath and wills away the tears building in the corners of his eyes. _Bend but never break_ , he reminds himself, in the words of all the hunters that came before him. No, he will not use the last of his strength on a brief moment of panic, nor will he send Dorian into one. Dorian doesn’t need the gory details; but if this it, if this is really his final conversation, maybe Dorian can save some time for the few people who might bother to search for him. “Someone pushed me off a cliff.”

“ _Fasta vass_. What do you — who? What? Why?”

“I don’t know. He was angry at me for … everything.” Nebel tries to chuckle. His ribs regret the attempt. “Yeah. Everything.”

“Okay, that doesn’t help, you _know_ that doesn’t help. Where are you?” Dorian’s voice grows into a demand. Where — ? He’s in the cave, by the water, below where the drums played last night — “You were at the Arlathvhen, correct? Outside Halamshiral? There are Tevinter allies there; there are other crystals scattered about. I can connect to someone, surely. Where _exactly_ are you?”

“Not Halamshiral. That was a decoy.”

“I … right. Of course it was. Maker’s breath. _Where are you?_ I’m sending help, I have people I can — just hang on. They’re going to find you, alright?”

_No_. Nebel can’t let that happen. The Dalish have been through enough, too much of that by his own hand. If the Imperial forces get a single word of where they are — “You can’t. They’d kill us all.”

“No, they won’t, you need to trust me — “

“I trust you, Dorian. But not the rest of them.”

Nebel recognizes by now when Dorian is cursing him out in Tevene. He hears his favorite insult sprinkled in there a few times — _defeathered bird_. That’s good. He’d rather see Dorian angry than numb, going back to the bottle for comfort.

“Please, just … tell me where you are,” Dorian says. “Don’t do this to me.”

“You’re a good friend, Dorian.”

“Stop trying to say goodbye. You’re going to be alright. Hang in there. I will find you. Just give me a location, _please._ ”

Having been denied permission, Dorian would certainly default to asking for forgiveness instead. Nebel knows that the second he gives Dorian a vague idea of where the Arlathvhen is, Imperial agents will be on their way from the nearest city to raze the place to the ground. It will be a well-intentioned death sentence for every elf in the area.

“You know I love you, right?” Nebel says.

“Yes, I love you too, you stupid, Maker-damned idiot.” Dorian is either crying or on the verge of it. Nebel pictures him hunched over in one of many nooks in a majestic estate, frantically whispering into a crystal as he hides from prying ears and eyes. “Is there anybody with you? Where the hell is Bull?”

_Bull_.

Fuck.

“Dorian, please. I need a favor. Please. If I die — “ Nebel swallows a mouthful of blood. Death is easy enough to accept, but the thought of Bull out there searching for him, desperate for answers he’ll never find — the thought makes it hard to breathe. “Tell Bull I love him. Make sure he knows that. I don’t what I want, but … he needs to know I love him.”

Dorian pauses. He needs to agree. He needs to — “Kaffas _._ What is going on down in the South? I’m gone for a single year and even the most sickeningly sweet couple in all of Thedas can’t keep it together.”

_That’s funny,_ Nebel wants to say, because laughing hurts too much — but even those words are too heavy for his tired throat. It’s fine. He doesn’t need to say anything. Dorian will understand.

“Nebel, I beg you, _please_. Keep talking to me. Alright?” Dorian voice cracks. Nebel nods, once. “You cannot die while I’m on the other end of this thing.”

Dorian is right. That would be too cruel for someone as kind as Dorian, someone so compassionate that there’s no chance he’d drop the connection on his own. So he presses a kiss to the crystal and whispers, “Take care, Dorian,” before he lets the stone roll off his fingers and take the last remnants of light with it.

* * *

“I need a foothold, _now_.”

Thanks entirely to Merrill’s magic, Iron Bull has made it at least ten feet farther down the side of the cliff than she or Fenris. Merrill’s hands glow where they cling to the slick stone, and the gravelly sound of rocks sliding against each other echos from somewhere below. Iron Bull grunts out a _thank you_ , but within seconds he’s demanding more.

Beads of sweat fly off Merrill’s forehead as she shakes her head. “I can’t go any faster.”

“This is pointless,” Iron Bull says. In the depth of fog, Fenris toes around to find what he hopes is one of Merrill’s reinforced juts of stone and not an organic ledge that will crumble as soon as he steps on it.

“Wait!” Fenris hears Merrill cry out, and he swings his head down to see Iron Bull’s legs braced against the cliffside, his hands the only thing keeping him attached. Iron Bull doesn’t listen. In a burst of momentum, the Qunari uses his feet to push off the stone and twist his body midair so his back faces the sky. Before he disappears into the fog, his hands fold together in preparation for a dive into what Fenris can only hope is water instead of rocks.

Fenris ponders what punishment the Qun’s Triumvirate holds in store for a Ben-Hassrath who loses his most valuable asset, and if bringing back a corpse will somehow mitigate it. Considering Iron Bull’s eagerness to jump off the cliff, the prospect must be far worse than a few broken bones.

Merrill shuts her eyes and breathes a slow exhale out her nose, one that Fenris guesses is meant to be calming. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’s also trying to calculate if reaching the bottom of the cliff would take more or less time than ascending back up. She sighs at the same time that he finishes the math — it’s definitely quicker to continue than to turn back. “Oh, we really should’ve brought some lyrium,” Merrill says. “That’s going to be an awful lot of healing.”

The word _lyrium_ sends shivers down Fenris’s spine into his stomach, and suddenly his mouth is watering as if she’s talking about a fresh fruit tart. That’s … new. And something there definitely isn’t time to be concerned about.

Fenris mutters, “If he’s still alive.”

Merrill jostles her lantern to her other hand as she looks for the next handhold. “Give me that,” Fenris says, stretching his hand out to her. If any of them had been thinking clearly, they’d have tied it to her belt before beginning this descent.

Swirls of purple orbit Merrill’s palm as she passes the lantern to him, the device’s light pulsing in flashes like the lightning he’s surprised the clouds haven’t unleashed yet. His markings glow as a less saturated version of the same color as he reaches for it, then the hair on his arms stands on end as he grabs the metal handle, and then — it _burns._ It feels as if his hand has been shoved into a bin of needles, and then the pain progresses into his arm in a wave that has him biting his tongue. He squeezes his joints against the feeling, because he can’t slip, he _can’t_ , but the numbness spreads up past his neck, and suddenly, when it’s reached his ears —

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Fenris says, though he can’t hear it. The world goes silent, the wind gone, the waves stilled, Merrill’s breath stopped. The hum of the world disappears, even as the black curtain in the edges of his vision fades away.

And then it all comes back in a rush of pain and sound.

“What is wrong with this thing?” he says, giving the lantern a shake. It looks no different than it had a minute ago, still shining its same shade of taunting purple, as if it didn’t almost kill him. Turns out it’s the same as any other “tool” made by a mage, human or not. Just another weapon waiting to go wrong.

“Are you alright, Fenris?”

“Your magic leaks into everything.” He shouldn’t be surprised that the abundance of magic around spilled into the lantern, igniting the danger he always suspected was within.

“Magic does not leak.” Fenris can hear the annoyed crinkle of her nose. “Can you see him?”

“No.” The lantern’s light reflects off the droplets in the air, doing nothing but coloring the fog in violet. Fenris waits for a decent spot to stand and hooks the lantern through his belt. If it falls, it will not be a loss. “You are too fond of lightning, Merrill. Between this and that incident at Shielan’s camp, it’s a wonder you haven’t burnt me alive.”

Merrill creates another series of footholds beneath them. She looks to have an easier time of it now that she doesn’t need to accommodate the larger feet of the Iron Bull. Before she takes the next step, she pauses and looks to Fenris with the typical mix of confusion and concern that she and Hawke have grown so fond of.

“But that was ice, Fenris,” she says.

“What?”

“Why would I use lightning to stop you?” The idea seems to appall her, but he remembers the shocks coursing through him in a level of detail so vivid that it could only be born of the most excruciating pain. “I would never want to hurt you like that.”

The last remnants of light still crawl through the markings of his arm like the blighted, luminescent insects that would slither along the tunnels of the deep roads. As he moves his freezing fingers from one slippery perch to the next, he wonders if these tattoos have corrupted his nerve-endings as well.

“It doesn’t matter,” Fenris says, as he sees the end in sight. “The lucky bastard lives.”

* * *

There are things that Nebel knows Varric won’t include in the tale he eventually writes.

In the battle over Corypheus, the climactic finale for his band of heroes, he’s certain the Inquisitor will strike the final blow: a metaphor for his triumph against all evils in the world. The Inquisitor will rise, say something noble and quippy, and share a passionate kiss with his lover — maybe that will be Bull. Maybe Cassandra would sell better.

The truth of it won’t go down in history. No one wants to hear about how the real leader — a depressed coward barely holding it together — crawled away from the battle to find a quiet corner to die in.

It wasn’t how he wanted to go. But the gash in his side was bleeding faster than two hands could stop, and one upright step had been too much for his swollen, heavy head. The mages were beaten down. To go to them would endanger the world, a selfish use for the last bits of their power, all while Corypheus still loomed above. His potions were gone. The warriors were holding the end of the world at bay. He’d done his job, and living beyond that would be a bonus that he’d never expected.

So he’d found a spot to take cover, hidden behind rocks that quivered with the aftershocks of magic and screams, and prayed that he be the only one to die.

As he’d begun to drift off, he’d heard whispers. Soft, beckoning ones, like the words of a parent comforting a child. _The darkness isn’t so bad_ , they’d said. In it, he’d find warm arms to welcome him home, greeting him with one of the lullabies he hadn’t heard in years.

He’d taken a single step towards them, and then the pleas had started.

Desperate and rasping, a single voice that rose above all else. She’d always had that power, silencing a crowd with no more than an inhale. He’d smiled. He could almost feel her digging boney fingers into his arms, pressing her chin into his hair, and begging:

_Live, lethallin_.

He’d figured, for once, he should listen to his Keeper.

Lighting the Anchor always felt like stringing a thread between his heart and the Fade, leaving an exposed cord that every movement and sound of the world could pluck at to rattle his chest and scrape his bones. At the same time, it always felt like a relief: the magic in it never wanted to be quiet, and his body had never been enough to contain its power. There, laid on his side, hand under his coat to hide the light and muffle the noise, he’d ignited it in a slow, pulsing rhythm. Over and over — even as the veins in his arm turned gray, even as the colors of the world took on the garish colors of the Fade — he’d used the Anchor’s shocks to remind his slowing heart to continue its beating. It kept him awake. It kept him breathing. It had nearly killed him.

Bull had been the one to find him, teeth chattering, green sparks flying off his skin into the pool of blood below. At first, Nebel had thought his vhenan to be a dream. But in the midst of battle, Bull had truly stepped away, not only noticing he was gone but risking everything to find him. Nebel remembers being carried, soothing words in a language not meant to be so soft, and the warmth of a hand gripping his own, even as the Anchor went off within it.

Bull had brought him to Solas and then had no choice but to return to the fight. Solas hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t uttered even one complaint about his mana reserves. With a face twisted in concern that Nebel never expected from him, Solas had poured life into his body: blue and cold, like floating in the pools of a waterfall on a chilly, summer morning.

The thread has been cut, but he pulls at it anyways. The Anchor doesn’t respond. The Fade doesn’t come to him. When he opens his eyes, there’s no hand bathed in green; there’s only the black, dripping ceiling of an empty cave.

But he pulls again, begging the Veil to tear itself open, to grant him this one favor, to give him one last chance to say goodbye. And for a moment, it’s as if he’s there again. He sees that same color, like his mind has painted the blues and whites over his eyelids as a parting gift. He feels the same chill run through his blood, filling him with calm, and he hears Solas, whispering the same words he had back then —

“You cannot die just yet.”

* * *

When they get to the rocks, Fenris expects to find horns, bobbing in and out of muddy water. Eyes, calculating the trajectory of a body carried by the wind. Blood, from at least one person. Limbs in a frenzy, parting fog and water in a desperate search for an impossibility.

What they find is a cave, dark as a night without a moon, its stale air overwhelmed with the scent of blood. A dead deepstalker stretches across the spikes of rock, its face torn to shreds by a knife at close range, its stomach stained with purple and its tunnel of teeth coated in red.

What they find is Iron Bull on his knees, drawing heavy breathes through lungs that can’t possibly be in-tact, cradling what remains of Lavellan in his arms. The fabric on Lavellan’s chest has torn apart to reveal skin gone pale as bone, and Iron Bull has his hand pressed there, looking for breaths or heartbeats or any movement that might make Lavellan’s lips not seem so blue.

The last thing Fenris expects to find is Iron Bull crying — no theatrics about it, no sobs wracking his shoulders, just his chin tucked into his neck like he might hide the tears that fall on the face of a man who appears to have died just moments too early.

Fenris stands, shocked into a stillness that feels all too right in the silent cave, and as much as he searches, he can’t remember a single tale of a Ben-Hassrath ever crying like this.

And then Iron Bull whispers through a throat gone raw, _“Help_.”

Merrill rushes to him, knife already out, kneeling and parting the skin of her arm into a free-flowing canal of blood without a second of hesitation. Iron Bull doesn’t let go of Lavellan, his arms still clutching the motionless body even as the cave comes alive with the blinding shine of a healing light.

“He’s … alive?”

Merrill is the one to nod, her own hand pressed to Lavellan’s neck, and something unexpected and akin to relief bubbles up in Fenris. Iron Bull clutches Lavellan’s body as color returns to it like he’s the most precious thing the Maker has bestowed upon the world.

And as the lights wicks away each bead of blood falling from Merrill’s quivering arm, as the cave fills with the stench of the worst breed of magic imaginable, Fenris doesn’t even care. The light draws him closer, feet moving like he’s stuck in the throws of a dream, and he finds himself kneeling beside them, offering help in the any of the few ways he can.


	15. Chapter 15

Nebel wakes three times.

The first, he is being carried. Someone is clinging to his body, and though he can’t find their name, their face, any words for them other than _warm_ and _strong,_ he knows them with every aching muscle and bone. In their arms, he is safe. His eyes won’t open, but that’s alright; the darkness is a comfort against a world of blurred sensations and colors he knows would rip apart what’s left of him. There’s nothing left that doesn’t hurt, and after some indiscernible amount of time, even the hands on him begin to feel too tight, too firm against the flesh he distantly knows is his.

When sleep holds out a hand in invitation to its painless void, he takes it.

* * *

“We need healers, please!” Between wheezing gasps and coughs, Merrill manages to scramble up over the lip of the cliff. The tell-tale signs of mana depletion had begun to show only halfway up the climb — shaky limbs, dizzy spells, the way the rocks had stuttered under waning control. Most footholds had needed to be strengthened to support the new weight upon Iron Bull’s back.

Fenris allows himself a sigh of relief as he follows her onto land that doesn’t threaten to give out with one wrong step. He’s the last one up, and by the time he’s gotten to standing, Merrill is helping untie Lavellan from Iron Bull’s back. Two nearby elves notice the commotion.

“What’s happened?” One of them cries as he rushes over. “That’s — is that the Inquisitor?”

Iron Bull takes the rope from Merrill’s trembling hands and begins to untie it himself. Merrill hunches over, hands on her knees, sweat falling in beads off her nose. “Hurry, I’m out of mana, we need — “

She can’t finish her sentence. Fenris manages to catch her before she falls on her back, still conscious, but without the strength to stand.

“How did this happen?” The other elf asks, helping Fenris lower Merrill to a sitting position on the ground. Finding an answer to that question isn’t important, not right now. What matters is getting Merrill that damn lyrium.

“Fetch the healers,” Iron Bull says. “Now.”

The elf who’d recognized Lavellan snaps out of the horror that’s plain on his face. “Yes, of course, stay right here,” he says, and then he’s off in the direction of the cluster of tents. The other one passes Iron Bull her black and silver cloak; it’s blood red by the time she’s finished helping him bundle Lavellan into it. She runs off to follow the man.

Lavellan’s head is the only part of him exposed. It droops against Iron Bull’s shoulder as the Qunari holds him as if setting him down would allow the ground to swallow him whole — as if his arms are the only place in the world that isn’t a death sentence. Iron Bull’s face has lost that agony from the cave. There’s no head hanging in grief, just a cold eye staring off towards the tents — a stoicism that Fenris can begrudgingly admit he may have misread. But even without a trace of tears, Iron Bull is still strangely pale. The climb had worn down Fenris as well, but his own breathing isn’t nearly so ragged.

“You’re injured, aren’t you?” Fenris asks. “You didn’t land well after that dive.”

Iron Bull grunts. “Doesn’t matter.”

Merrill coughs, her fingers laced in a death-grip in her lap. “It’s alright. We’ll all be fine. They should be able to find some healers.”

“Wait,” Fenris says. “After all of that, you would still leave him in the hands of some random mages?” Fenris’s voice climbs when he realizes he’s being ignored by them both. “We don’t know what happened here. If this was an attempt on his life, we have no guarantee that Dhaven acted alone.”

“I have nothing left in me, Fenris. We don’t have a choice,” Merrill says.

“You heard everybody yesterday. Half the people here want him dead, and the other half would rather _you_ in his place.”

“You hear one or two angry voices, and everything else goes silent, doesn’t it?” Merrill looks up at him, and between the disappointment and the bags around her eyes, Fenris can’t help but think of Anders. He looks over his shoulder, half-expecting the ghost of the man to be there climbing over the cliff as well. Thankfully, they’re unfollowed.

“I will deal with anyone who tries to hurt him,” Iron Bull says.

“By the time you’d realized what they were doing, it would be too late. Tell me, what is the difference between a spell meant to heal his heart and one meant to shatter it?” Fenris asks.

“Are you going to heal him then?” Iron Bull spins on him, one hand pressed to Lavellan’s head to keep it from swinging. “Why the fuck do you even care? You seem to want him dead more than anybody.”

Fenris opens his mouth to refute that, but finds he has nothing to say.

As he makes his way back to camp between the rows of blue and golden lights flickering to life, he tries not to think of the altus who had pulled him aside in the manor’s halls and offered him healing after a particularly brutal demonstration at one of Danarius’s infamous parties. He’d walked back to the slave chambers alone then too, lightning still ratting his teeth and the cruel laughter of a trick echoing in his ears.

* * *

The second time, he is lying on the ground, something soft under his head. The pain is not gone — he doubts it ever will be, not when it’s burrowed so deep into his bones, not when it courses through his veins like a blight clawing its way through him. But it’s lifted enough that he can open his eyes, and though the darkness is beginning to feel like a home, he does.

There’s light, but it’s not on him. Hands are hovering over someone else, three people bent over a body, pouring blue into a chest that rises and falls like every breathe is a battle. The light blinds the parts of his vision that aren’t already claimed by darkness, but Nebel can still make out a face, an eye, a horn —

He needs to be _there_. It takes more strength than he has, but he pulls himself across the cold ground to the warmth that he knows is waiting for him, needing him, begging him to come closer. There are voices, and the words sound like they’re spoken through water, but he recognizes surprise, panic, and then a strange amusement in this place that feels capable only of pain. Two bodies part a gap for him to crawl through, and he presses himself against the man’s side, curling himself into a corner of the world he knows is made for him.

The voices dim into soft and light tones as he feels hands lift his head and place that softness back beneath it. They don’t move him away though, they understand: this is where he needs to be, his face tucked into the side of a chest, listening as breaths enter and leave in a rhythm slowly returning to normal. Here, he can listen, protect, and lend whatever warmth he has to give —

He falls asleep before the second breath, his hand entwined with fingers even limper than his own.

* * *

“Oh, thank the Maker. I need a break.”

Fenris doesn’t doubt it. Dhaven is still on the ground, cloth gag wet and twisted in his mouth. Hawke must have flipped him onto his back and elevated his leg up onto a few pieces of firewood at some point. Snot, sweat, and tears roll down his sniveling mess of a face, and his red-webbed eyes shoot to Fenris. He must think Fenris has come to offer an end to this purgatory; Fenris knows well that the uncertainty of waiting is often worse than the punishment itself. Unfortunately for him, Fenris comes bearing neither freedom nor the guillotine.

Fenris’s feet prickle as he sits. It feels like the first moment of rest in days. “I’m sorry that you continue needing to do this, Hawke.”

“It’s alright. Made some new spoons, got to watch a guy’s leg swell up to double its size.” Hawke glances to Dhaven’s leg, which does indeed look sickening. “Did y’all, uh … find him?”

“He’s alive.”

“You’re kidding me. Are you serious?” Hawke presses a hand to his mouth and flinches at Fenris’s nod. “Well, color me an asshole.” He gives Dhaven a wink, and then waggles his brows when he receives no reaction. “Guess you’d better get your story _real_ straight now.”

Dhaven says nothing. The only movement from him is the slow, asymmetrical drooping of his eyelids. Fenris peers closer and sees his lips have gone blue around the black gag, exhaling breaths too shallow to keep a body alive.

“Hawke,” Fenris warns, tipping his head in Dhaven’s direction.

“Oh, hell. Wanna bring him closer to the fire? Could help.”

“Hm.” Fenris begrudgingly loops his arms under Dhaven’s shoulders and drags him within feet of the campfire, noting that the man does, in fact, still possess the capacity to flinch and whine at his leg being dragged over firewood. Fenris shuts his eyes as he sits to Dhaven’s right, determined to make the most of this moment of rest. Maker knows how long it will last.

“Stop!”

Fenris’s eyes snap open. Hawke is yelling curses, lunging forward over the fire, but he’s too slow. Dhaven already has his arm extended, a rod in his hand, its tip smoldering and hissing with sparks. Hawke’s back bends nearly in half to avoid the whistling spire that suddenly flies from Dhaven’s fingers.

Of course a hunter would have signal flares. They were idiots not to search for them.

“You _fucker_!” Fenris yells, hurling himself on top of Dhaven just as an explosion fills the sky with green.

* * *

The third time, Nebel remembers who he is.

And who is he _hurts_. He shuts his eyes against the light, but all that does is amplify the rest of his senses, and that’s the last thing he wants to do. There’s no way to tell if the throbbing in his head is from a concussion or if the pain that’s made its way to every last corner of his body is overwhelming his nerves. He groans, and it’s a blessing that he’s still capable of that.

Fingers suddenly move against him, rubbing circles into his shoulder. He blinks his eyes back open. The light isn’t so bad this time. It’s better than the darkness of that cave, at least. He doesn’t know what happened, how he ended up here, but he does know this: he’s in a tent. It’s evening. And Bull is with him, warm and quiet and breathing okay. He can’t remember why that last bit is so important, but it gives him a wave of relief strong enough to let him speak.

“Water?”

Tucked in the crook of Bull’s arm, he tilts his head back and sees a gray eye staring down at him. The moment their eyes meet, Nebel gets the privilege of watching fear melt away into relief and affection.

“You got it,” Bull says. Thankfully, he doesn’t need to sit up or move at all from where he lays next to Nebel, a warmth that feels so soothing against his aching side. Bull holds out a canteen, but in the time it takes for Nebel to remember where his hand is — thank fuck, he still has a hand — Bull changes his mind and presses it to Nebel’s lips instead.

The water tastes like blood. Nebel moves his tongue around and — yep, he’s missing a tooth. At least it’s in the back.

“I feel like shit,” he mutters after Bull has taken his own swig.

“Can’t say I’m surprised.” Bull coughs and shifts his arm so it rests across his own chest instead of around Nebel. “Sorry, uh. Didn’t wanna assume anything but … you moved over here in your sleep. And, you know, I didn’t wanna jostle you around any more.”

Right. Pain finds new pathways into his chest as he remembers. Nothing is normal anymore. This comfort is fleeting: a getaway to one of those lakeside cabins Bull would rent for the Chargers, not a home to return to. It’s presumptuous, selfish, and wrong on all accounts for them to lie together like this, curled up as if the last few days never happened.

“Yeah,” Nebel whispers. “That makes sense. I guess I should move.”

But he doesn’t, and for as long as he waits, Bull doesn’t either. It’s fine. The acknowledgement that this is wrong is enough, and any prying eyes will just have to forgive them for stealing one moment of peace.

It’s healing, really. The Dalish know this well; a body mends itself better when it’s close to another, when there’s a heartbeat and breath to follow, when the spirit is reminded it’s not traveling this world alone. He’d been pleased to discover the Qunari believe in much the same idea, even if their explanations aren’t quite what he’s used to. Something about vibrations and velocity and such — either way, it had meant the Chargers were a surprisingly more cuddly group than the rest of his companions.

“Here.” Bull shifts, lifting his shoulders up just a touch as he reaches his hands up to his neck. “Uh, no pressure to wear it, but I thought you might want it back. Brought your bag too.”

“Oh. Thank you,” Nebel says as Bull drops his necklace into his outstretched hand. Nebel closes his fingers around it and lifts the tooth to admire it’s unscratched surface — he shouldn’t be surprised a dragon’s bone would be able to endure —

“Fenhedis, Bull.” Nebel’s body jolts upright. He presses his hand to his forehead as memories come back in a rush, and he realizes exactly what Bull must think happened. “I was _pushed_. Oh, fuck, I swear — I didn’t jump, I really didn’t, it was that guy, the one from — “

“I know. It’s all good. We found him.” Bull’s lips curve into a smirk as he taps his finger against his eyepatch. “I got your message.”

Nebel smiles. Only Bull would see a missing eye and know that it’s his handiwork; Bull has always appreciated his fondness for the dirtiest fighting tricks, even if that’s not how he himself operates. He’d laughed his ass off when a few too many instinctive kicks to the knees had led to an indefinite ban on Nebel participating in any more Skyhold sparing matches.

Nebel tucks the necklace into the pocket of his pants — well, some generous person’s pants, his own were certainly ruined — and runs his fingers over it. Maybe he’ll bring it back to his neck later, but to do so in front of Bull feels like sending a message he’s not ready to commit to.

As he’s pondering that dilemma, an arms wraps back around his shoulders, and he turns to see Bull sitting up on one elbow. He lets Bull ease him back down to the ground, his body thankful for it, and they return to their same position as before. There’s the smallest of grunts as Bull lies back down, though. That’s strange. Bull’s shoulder and knee give him problems sometimes, but he doesn’t usually have trouble with with his back — and then he remembers, suddenly, the shine of healing light that definitely wasn’t on him.

His heart speeds up as he presses his head to Bull’s side and listens. “Are your lungs okay? They were — you needed healing, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m just fine. Don’t you worry about me.” Bull takes a slow, deep inhale, then lets it out in one powerful gust. Point taken. “Oh, uh, but … Dorian was freaking out earlier. You might wanna talk to him sometime. Had to talk him out of sending a bunch of ‘Vint troops out here.”

“Oh, fuck.” Nebel can hardly remember anything from their conversation other than Dorian’s desperate cries for him to stop saying goodbye. He cringes at the memory. “Is he alright? I must have scared him to death.”

“Is _he_ alright? Look at you.”

Nebel would rather not. He’s not ready to survey that damage just yet.

Bull continues, “I told him you were giving it a good fight, like always. He cursed me out. _What kind of man lets his boyfriend fall off a cliff_ , etcetera, etcetera.”

“I owe him so many drinks.”

As soon as he gets a real chance, Nebel is going to call him and apologize until the crystal gets tired of it and refuses to carry his voice any longer. He also makes a mental note to find someone here with more elfroot. He’s going to need it after listening to Dorian chew him out.

But first, there’s a man much closer than Tevinter that has something he needs to hear.

“Thanks for saving me,” Nebel whispers. The words don’t feel like enough, but Bull’s not going to accept him getting down on his knees and groveling in gratitude. Well, maybe in another way —

“Merrill was the one who brought us to you,” Bull says. “Healed you up real nice too. Said you were in better shape than she expected, actually.”

“Well, then. I take back my thanks. I should be giving them to her instead.”

“Whoa, there. I deserve a _little_ credit, don’t I?”

“Eh.”

Bull chuckles and mimes prodding Nebel in the side, though he doesn’t actually dare make contact. Nebel still grins at the sentiment, but when he looks up, he sees the concern of something unsaid marring Bull’s cheer. The sight makes his throat dry. He can’t handle the thought of Bull hiding anything else from him.

“What’s wrong?”

Bull shuts his eye and stays quiet for a moment, and just before Nebel is ready to pry deeper, he answers. “I’m sorry I took so long to find you. Woke up and you were just … gone. And — fuck. Forget Dorian. I was scared shitless.“

Nebel tries not to picture Bull running around, cursing himself for not waking up earlier, for not staying awake until Nebel had returned, for a hundred things that aren’t his fault at all. “Don’t apologize,” he says as he reaches out to rest his hand on Bull’s side. “You did find me. And look — I’m alright.”

Really, he is. He’s doing better than he ever could have imagined as he’d laid in the cave, certain that the slim chance of survival would come with at least one more missing body part. He’d known as soon as that droplet of deepstalker blood had refused to dissolve that he’d be lucky to get out of there at all.

The blood. Huh. It had looked just like —

“Oh,” he mutters. “I guess Merrill could have tracked me, right? I didn’t even think of that before.”

Bull’s throaty hum is discomforting. Nebel hopes he doesn’t feel bad about not thinking of that either. Or maybe he did, and the thought of going to Merrill had seemed too risky. He doesn’t blame him either way.

“Yeah, soooo — “ Bull coughs. “Turns out, she pulled one over on us.”

“What?”

“Yep. A total bluff. Just made us drink her blood for fun, I guess.”

“Wow,” Nebel breathes. “That’s something I’d expect from you, not her.”

“I will choose to take that as a compliment.”

So they could have run at any time. If he’d kept his mouth shut about the Evanuris, Merrill might have chased them, but she almost certainly wouldn’t have caught them. And while he’d come to the conclusion that speaking the truth would be better than leaving that story in the hands of Solas, it would have been nice not to have an axe hanging over his head while he’d done it. He makes another mental note to stop believing everything that comes from Merrill’s overly-innocent face.

They’ll have to get up, eventually. He’ll uncurl from Bull’s side, resolve that this moment never happened, and they can return to tense silences and questions neither of them want to answer. He’ll face the man that pushed him, face the people he’d left to deal with the truth while he’d run off, and maybe eventually face his own decision of where the hell he’s going after this festival ends. But for now, he can pretend that nothing else is waiting for him.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Bull says. In the beat of silence that follows, Nebel hears the space where _kadan_ should be.

“Me too,” he whispers, and there’s oddly something wet in Bull’s eye before it turns from him. It must be sweat. Bull doesn’t cry; he never has before, and he’s not going to start now.

And then, just as Bull is pulling a blanket over his ears and sleep is openings its arms to him, promising to be a temporary respite instead of a final destination: a distant whistle. A not-so-distant commotion of shouts and hasty feet. A sinking feeling that this involves him, as most things do these days.

Bull’s fist pounds the ground. “Of all the times — can we ever get one damn moment of peace?”

“The world can’t keep its shit together for two hours without us.”

If only this thing, whatever nonsense it may be, could have happened a few minutes earlier, when Nebel still had the excuse of being unconscious. What’s the point of a coma if it doesn’t get him out of at least one catastrophe?

Bull’s joints creak with complaints as he moves into a squatting position, hand waving over his back as he faces away from Nebel. Up he goes, then. “Sorry. I’d let you stay here, but, y’know … Recent events and all.”

Nebel lets out one final groan. Injured as he may be, protecting the Arlathvhen still comes first. He slumps more than climbs over Bull’s back, smirking as Bull handles the labor of arranging his arm over his shoulders and legs around his waist. “Be gentle with me,” he breathes in Bull’s ear as they duck out of the tent. He’s pushing this too far, sneaking sips of normalcy that numb his senses with a warmth that he knows isn’t good for him, nor Bull, nor all the unspoken things still hanging over them.

But Bull hums anyway — raspy, amused, rumbling enough to send reverberations through Nebel’s own chest — and whispers back, “You only say that when you want it rough.”

* * *

Dhaven has the physique of a hunter and the arrogance of someone used to animals that don’t fight back. Fenris straddles him, one hand twisting in the front of his shirt, the other pinning down his right arm. Dhaven allows it all. Iron Bull’s scarf stays tight around his mouth, but Fenris sees the twinkle of a smirk in his eye. Hawke makes to draw his sword; Fenris shakes his head to stop him. From the clamber of footsteps and voices growing ever louder, he knows the damage has already been done.

It seems the entirety of the festival has nothing better to do than rush to their camp, filling in the gaps between the trees from all directions. The darkness of twilight is pushed out by the sudden flood of lanterns and torches.

“What is going on?” A man yells, pointing his staff at Hawke, then Dhaven, then settling it on Fenris.

Hawke throws out his arms and stands between the mage and Fenris. “Wait! Give us space. We don’t know what he’ll do.”

Someone’s voice calls from the branches above, of all places. “It’s true. He’s the lyrium ghost, he may — ”

“I didn’t mean _Fenris_.”

Staves and swords encircle them, and their campsite goes from small to unbreathable. Greens and blues reflected in steel are all that Fenris can see — balls of light that shift in the palms of all these mages like creatures waiting to pounce. His markings are singing pleas to ignite, urged on by the hum of his heartbeat and the echo of Dhaven’s own pulsing heart in his pinned wrist. He can’t let himself lose control. Hawke is by his side, face dark with shadows that won’t stay still, standing with his sword drawn and no room to move it without colliding with another. If Fenris loses his calm, Hawke won’t walk out of here alive. But people are screaming questions and demands, a buzz without any gaps for answers, and all the while, Dhaven is smiling up at him, reveling in his victory.

“Stop!” A voice cuts through the chaos, and Dhaven’s eyes go wide, the whites of them bathed in blue. “He’s the one who pushed me.”

Lavellan. Fenris hears his pulse in his ears more than what the Inquisitor says. But a minute later and he can breathe again, the wall of weapons backing away until he can finally see his tent and the smoldering remains of their fire once more. Lavellan slides down from Iron Bull’s back and finds an unsteady balance on his feet in the middle of the clearing.

“Inquisitor Lavellan, are you truly accusing this man of — “

“Ungag him, Fenris,” Lavellan says. Fenris does.

Dhaven takes three panicked breaths. Not so confident anymore. “You’re alive. You’re safe. Oh, thank the Creators.”

“Seriously, man?” Hawke scoffs just as Merrill drops from a tree, landing gently beside Lavellan with her lantern held between them. “You push a guy with one arm off a cliff and are thankful he’s alive?”

“It’s … surely, this is a miracle. They’re real. Everything you said — it has to be a lie. They saved you.”

Lavellan’s face sours at the word _miracle_. From behind the rows of shocked faces, a woman pushes to the front of the crowd, carrying a torch in her arms and anger in her wide eyes. Lit by overly bright magic, Fenris just barely recognizes her as the woman who had brought them Lavellan’s abandoned necklace that morning, though it feels like it’s been days. Fenris tightens his hold around Dhaven’s arm, ready to be asked to release him and ready for what comes after asking doesn’t work. But with her fists clenched and trembling, she stares down at Dhaven, and all she asks is, “Was it really you?”

Dhaven flinches. “Marelwyn. You know what he’s done.”

Marelwyn kicks dirt in his face and turns on her heel, leaving Dhaven to cough up that same dirt into Fenris’s face. She woman disappears through the wide path the rest of the elves open for her. Fenris resists the urge to spit back on Dhaven. He can’t get the grime off his face, not without letting go of the bastard. Hawke seems to realize Fenris’s disgusting predicament and rushes forward to offer his sleeve as a handkerchief.

Dhaven’s gaze sweeps what little of the crowd he can see without moving from under Fenris. If he’s looking for help of his own, it doesn’t come. Whether it be curiosity, amusement, or fear holding them in place — the crowd is silent and still. Then, Dhaven’s muscles relax in Fenris’s grip. Not enough that Fenris will let him go, but enough that he doesn’t need to bruise Dhaven’s arm to hold him in place. He must have realized: he’s alone. There’s no point fighting anymore.

“And what exactly did I do?” Lavellan asks.

Dhaven grunts as his hips shift under Fenris — Fenris allows it, simply because getting him comfortable enough to talk means getting this over with faster — but his new position seems no more pleasant on his broken leg than the previous. What a shame. Dhaven sighs. “It’s not wholly your fault,” he says. “But the Chantry needed one of our young, and you were convenient, I suppose.”

“Convenient? That’s a new one,” Lavellan says.

“Maybe you’re too deep in it to see what they did. It was clever, after all,” Dhaven continues. “All they had to do was plant the seeds and send you back here to sow them.”

From the dumbfounded look on Lavellan’s face, Fenris expects to need to explain it to him. But Lavellan eventually frowns and asks, “You think I’ve been brainwashed?”

“Listen to yourself. The Chantry tried to wipe us out, all because we had no interest in their god. So what do they do? They try to ‘prove’ that our gods are fake. They tell us that our fall from glory was our own fault. As if that means we deserve their shit. If they can’t take our lives, they’ll take our culture.” Though the pity on Dhaven’s face is directed at Lavellan, it’s still revolting. “I don’t know what they did to you. Maybe you had no choice. But sometimes there are people beyond saving, and somebody needs to make the hard decisions.”

Lavellan looks ready to lay his own hand on Dhaven as he stalks forward, but his legs don’t appear interested in cooperating. Iron Bull wraps an arm around his waist at the first wobble of Lavellan’s knees and lowers him to sit on the ground with a surprisingly delicate grip.

“I never said anyone needed to trust the humans, or the Chantry,” Lavellan says, pulling his hand away from his forehead. “I’m only asking that you don’t join an army to kill them all.”

“You didn’t need to. You said everything just by bringing them here.” Dhaven glances to Hawke. Fenris retightens his grip. “And then people were listening to you. Really believing the shit you said.”

Merrill jumps in. “It’s the truth,” she insists.

“It’s a disease sent to kill us from the inside,” Dhaven says, and then he rolls his head to the side with the most elves gathered. “And then — I wasn’t the only one. You all know that.” There are as many reactions as there are people — awkward glances to the side, shaking heads, bafflement. “We were talking, and we kept saying we had to do something. Show the Chantry they can’t just send in an elf and think we’ll believe everything they say. And we just kept talking, and it seemed like a good idea, and — ” Dhaven gives Lavellan one last look, then closes his eye, muscles braced like he expects the axe to fall again at any second. “I saw him sitting there. And it seemed so easy.”

“You did it for attention,” Hawke says. ”You wanted to be the one with the balls big enough to actually deal the killing blow.”

“I only wanted to protect us.”

_He should die,_ Fenris thinks. If he wants to speak of poison and disease, he may as well be the first person culled. But Fenris won’t walk out of here alive if he takes action without the blessing of — of whom? There’s no leader here. Fenris has the same authority as anyone else here to decide that killing this man is just.

Fenris finds himself staring at Lavellan. But Lavellan is fixated on Dhaven, sitting there with his fist resting against his chin like there’s any question of what to do with this lunatic. Merrill’s lantern casts a heavy shadow over half of Lavellan’s face; a flat, aloof expression covers the other. And he waits, saying nothing. Though there’s only dirt under him, Fenris imagines this is how he once sat atop a throne.

If Lavellan expects a skeptical look and a drawn out silence to have any effect, he’s sure to end up —

Fenris is at a party.

Under a crystal chandelier, there’s a dozen tables, each laid out with wines of the deepest red and frosted goods laid on towers of silver. People laugh as their rouge-painted lips close around fruits so bright that they must have been picked fresh from the vine. Juices splash onto tablecloths that seem to clean themselves. Some people are masked: too spineless to show their identities, but too depraved to turn down an invitation.

Fenris is on a table, legs crossed, a strawberry’s leaves held between his thumb and index finger. At his feet, a man sits with his face tilted towards the chandelier and his parted, hairy lips waiting patiently.

Interesting. This could be fun.

Fenris smashes a wine glass and thrusts the neck of it down the man’s throat, pinning him to the plush velvet chair at his back. Then, for good measure, Fenris takes a fistful of shards and shoves them in there as well. The next man dies from blood loss, his oh-so-favorite body part severed with a table knife. A woman’s neck is twisted until Fenris can’t hear any more cracks.

One table down. He moves to the next like a servant delivering trays of piping hot food, flavors they’ll never get a chance to taste. It _is_ fun. Fenris finds himself smiling as he wipes blood on silken tablecloths and embroidered robes.

A man dares to fight back. He dodges Fenris’s hand and jumps with ease to the third step of the winding staircase. He looks down his crooked nose at Fenris, the chandelier’s light gleaming off the golden beads braided into his beard, and then he raises his fingers to the amulet hanging by a well-polished chain around his neck.

He doesn’t look afraid enough. Fenris will need to think of a clever enough way to kill him if he wants to see that fear he so desperately craves.

The man’s knees buckle and he falls to them, forehead hitting the bottom step seconds later. His body slides down the stairs and his spine bends at an extreme angle as his head folds under his back. A woman crouches over him, auburn hair tied up over long ears. She steps between the dead man’s shoulder-blades, and the room stills.

“Varania.”

She stands, blood splashing across her smile as she pulls her knife from the man’s back, and, softly, she whispers, “Leto.”

Fenris is on the ground, sprawled under black, boney branches like fingers trying to hide him from the night sky.

“What — “

To his left, Dhaven lies in the same position, a knife in his hand stretched up into the empty air where Fenris’s heart had been a moment ago — or has it been longer? What happened? The lyrium’s never put him in a dream like that before, not so suddenly, not so far from reality.

To his right, Hawke is diving to his knees next to him, and two wispy tendrils of black and red twist back into a cut on Merrill’s arm. She looks at Fenris, guilt written across her face.

_How dare she?_

Fenris lets out a guttural howl as he flips over, and every vein in his body burns with unfathomable heat. She was in those veins, pulling his strings, and who’s to say what all she did? Who’s to say she hasn’t left traces behind? Who gave her the right to his skin and bone?

He shoves a hand on top of Dhaven’s throat and grabs the knife with the other. Dhaven didn’t have this earlier. One of these silent onlookers must have magicked it over to him, eager to see this maniac once again do their dirty work.

“Stop!” Merrill cries, but her words aren’t worth the droppings littering this forest.

“Don’t.” A hand grabs his wrist. Fenris jerks away, but the grip stays strong, and he turns to see it’s Iron Bull — not Hawke — crouched beside him. “I get it. I feel the same.” He pries the knife out of Fenris’s fingers and glances back at Lavellan. “But this isn’t how they do it.”

He’s a coward. All he wants is to butter up Lavellan until he can slide back into his good graces. He doesn’t know what Fenris has seen, where he’s been in the last few minutes alone. To everyone here, all that happened is that Fenris happened to roll over. How lucky, how quick, how perceptive he must be to so narrowly avoid a sneak attack.

He wants to set this forest on fire.

Iron Bull steps away as Fenris drops his hands to his sides. Dhaven’s throat sputters on release. Hawke’s sword shines crimson as he raises it once again, and Fenris looks around to see that the circle of weapons has returned, a red gem shining directly in his eyes and an obsidian saber pointed at his heart.

Fenris climbs to his feet, chin bowed. “Why are your swords turned on me?”

“We offered you hospitality,” says the man with the blade closest to Fenris’s chest. “You killed one of our young. And now you try to kill another.”

Fenris’s head snaps up. He throws the knife into the ground, which gives way with a resounding crunch. He must have hit a root. “Because they deserved it,” he snaps, and the idiots brave enough to threaten him stumble back in unison. “Yes,” he says, looking for calm that eludes him no matter how many deep breaths he takes. “I killed that girl. _And_ I killed the slavers she was working with.” The attention of the crowd narrows in on him, and he can’t hold back the heat surging through his markings any longer. They point. They gasp. Their whispers crawl down his skin.

Here he is, on display once again. At least this time, he has the freedom to speak.

“She deserved death,” he says. “More than Lavellan. Far more than Merrill does.”

“None of us want them dead,” a woman says, and there are nods and agreements that only serve to further Fenris’s rage.

“Is that true? Perhaps Dhaven dealt the blow, but how many others of you nudged him towards it? And for what crime? Telling you the truth that you’ve supposedly been searching millennia for?”

“Fenris, please, stop,” Merrill pleads.

“None of you want truth,” he continues, undeterred, letting flow the words that have boiled in him for days, even if he never imagined saying them like this. “All you want is to preserve your little bubble where you can pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”

Across the crowd that’s grown steadily less scattered, the torches light up faces of shock, confusion, pity. Merrill is bewildered. Iron Bull has the blank look of someone running a hundred calculations in his head. Lavellan looks like he wants to come pull Fenris away, just as he had with Merrill, and it’s only his current condition that’s stopping him.

Fenris points a finger at Lavellan. “If you’re so mad at the Chantry, why not go after them? If he’s just a puppet — as you say — then what’s the point in pushing him off a cliff?”

Hawke rests a hand on Fenris’s shoulder. ”Fenris, I know you’re mad, but maybe we should — “

“Because he’s an easier target, isn’t he? Easier to attack the washed-up guy here than to go after the Divine, or the Templars, or the damned empress who would see you all killed if it increased the price of wine by a few coppers. Easier to call me a murderer than to hunt down the slavers I was trying to stop.”

There’s revulsion in the crowd. A guffaw. Whispers in that damn language he’s never been able to pick up. But there are also flinches, here and there, and he’ll consider that a success. How predictable it is that he gets less resistance than Lavellan or Merrill, who’d had every word echoed with outcry.

“All you do is sing of unity. There’s no unity here.” He laughs, and for a second, he imagines how he must look in their eyes. Then he realizes that he truly doesn’t care. “You’re going to fall apart, once again, all because you couldn’t stop fighting long enough to stop it.”

When his voice has died out, he’s left with a silence that no one seems to know how to break. That’s not his problem. There’s no turning away from a ring of people, so Fenris just retrieves his sword and looks to Hawke, who stays by his side with every step. May these people react how they will. It would be naive to think that any of his words will make a difference. All that matters is that he can walk out of this horrid place knowing the truths he’s seen have been laid open.

But when he tries to break through the wall of people, Lavellan is in his way. Fenris sneers. There. The Arlathvhen is ruined. Lavellan can finally relax, knowing he can give up on his illusion of a peaceful festival.

“What?” Fenris snaps when Lavellan refuses to move from his path. “Do you finally have something to say?”

“It’s you.”

“What?”

“He sent you here, didn’t he?” Lavellan looks at Fenris like this first time he’s truly seen him. “There’s no one else. You’re the only agent he needed.”


	16. Chapter 16

“Why did you come here, Fenris?”

Lavellan has no cause for this anger. He’s looking for connections where there are none, answers that can tie the chaos together into a clean bundle that he can pin the entirety of on someone else.

“I’m no cultist,” Fenris says. He pushes past Lavellan, blindly heading to the main road in an attempt to escape the crowd that’s dared surround his campsite.

But like a shadow, Lavellan follows. “I thought it was strange, but I never … No, of course. You hate the Dalish. Why else would you possibly come here?”

Fenris speeds away. He stumbles out of the woods onto the road, catching his first breath of air in what feels like hours. Torches line the road, those same blues and golds that remind him of Tevinter streets. He can still hear the voices, the confusion and despair, and they’re getting closer by the second, following him just as Lavellan has, supported by Iron Bull’s elbow. It doesn’t matter. He’s done nothing wrong. Perhaps Solas sent him, but his raging words were an act of defiance against the bastard, not —

“This is exactly what he wanted, exactly as he planned it. Isn’t it?” Fenris hears Lavellan say from behind, and he finds himself stopping in the center of the empty road. He doesn’t know where to go; he can’t leave Hawke here alone.

When Fenris turns around, Lavellan is flanked by Iron Bull on one side and Merrill on the other. Hawke catches up a second later, Dhaven thrown over his shoulders, and then Fenris has four sets of eyes staring at him like he’s just burned down the Chantry.

Iron Bull looks like all the formulas he’s been running have measured out to a loss. “Yeah, it’s looking that way,” he says, but it _isn’t_. Not a word of what they’re saying makes any sense.

Hawke knows this. Hawke knows their real reasons for coming, and he can explain; he can show that the truth is nowhere near the picture Lavellan is painting. Fenris isn’t a pawn. There’s no strings dragging him along. So why does Hawke look so nervous?

“What are you trying to say?” Fenris demands.

Lavellan chews at his nails. He seems to be talking more to himself than to Fenris. “I let them know he’s out there, waiting for them. I plant the knowledge in their heads. He must have known how that would divide them.”

If that were the case, Lavellan should have thought through that before he chose to get up on a platform and reveal all of that stuff about their gods. _Except he did, didn’t he? If it had been up to him, he never would have said a word._ Fenris glances to Merrill. Her faces falls as Hawke gives her a wincing look as well.

“And then you come along,” Lavellan continues. “That unity you preached — do you know where they’re going to find it? The cause they will unite under?”

There are words to refute this, somewhere. There’s a hole in Lavellan’s speculation, surely, and through it Fenris can defend himself. He’s not a puppet. He made a deal, not an offer to use him as a tool.

But when the words don’t come, Lavellan snarls. Fenris has a thought that surprises him: is this how Ghilanna had felt, seconds before her heart had been severed from her? The foolishness of falling for a stupid trick; the remorse of ignoring the voice that must have been telling her she was doing wrong. But the clench in Fenris’s gut isn’t because of anything Lavellan could do to him — it’s the sight of a man marching towards him, not a shred of pity in his eyes, and the insipid voice telling Fenris that he deserves whatever retribution is coming. The feeling plucks an old string that years of freedom has had no success in loosening, sending echoes of fear to reverberate through his frozen body.

“Answer me. Who sent you here, Fenris?”

Fenris can’t. To say that name would be to admit how far he’s fallen. How he’s held himself so high above Lavellan, as if his own principles didn’t crumble under the weight of a deal that looked so promising in the midst of desperation.

The other elves arrive. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Somehow there seem to be even more of them pouring out of the woods than there had been at the campsite. They gawk at him, each with a varying degree of horror and curiosity, and the cage of people takes shape once again. He should have kept running.

“Yeah, this is gonna have to wait,” Hawke says.

Lavellan’s face pales as he looks over Fenris’s shoulder. The crowd is in an uproar before Fenris can even spin around, and when he does, he sees —

Green. A green that exists nowhere in this world, the hallmark color of the Fade. The air smells like fruit left out to rot, like those awful rituals when the magisters would spill blood just to reach across the Veil for whatever demonic creature was willing to fulfill their desires. And then out of the light steps Solas, hands folded behind his back, his face set in a smile. The light fades. The smell does not.

Distantly, Fenris is aware that there are gasps and shouts, threats and questions that Solas doesn’t even seem to hear. The only cries that have any effect on Solas are the calls for protection from their vast array of gods, but even those only deepen his frown by single degrees.

Down the dirt road, Solas prowls towards his prey.

Fenris’s markings flare, but it’s not his own doing, nor some instinctual fear. The chill of a barrier settles around him, and while his skin stings in response, there’s a sense of security that always comes with these translucent, shining shields that surround him on all sides. And then another comes up, and another, and ever more still until he views the world through a screen of shifting blue. He doesn’t know where they come from. He doubts they will deter Solas, but the intent doesn’t go unnoticed. Fenris wonders if even the mages here can sense that attacking the ancient elf would end only in defeat.

“Aneth ara,” Solas says, standing only a man’s height away from him. The circle of elves surrounding them grows wider by the second, leaving more and more room for the two of them alone. Fenris doesn’t know if it’s self-preservation instincts that’s making people stumble back or the effects of some spell, but he has to assume it’s the latter; Hawke would undoubtedly be by his side otherwise. Fenris tears away his gaze from Solas and finds himself correct: on the far side of the circle, Hawke is throwing punches at an invisible wall, unsuccessfully restrained by the arms of five different elves.

“Forgive me for the intrusion, everyone. I simply want to ensure we are uninterrupted,” Solas says, speaking as if there isn’t a crowd of voices surrounding them. And soon enough, there isn’t. A hush falls over the grounds as people quiet themselves to hear his low voice.

Except for Hawke, because Hawke has never taken a cue from a crowd. “Fenris!” he cries out, pure terror on his face as he tries to bust through the barrier with the desperate strength of someone about to lose the one thing they have left. Fenris’s heart aches for him.

“Be calm, Hawke,” Fenris says, and at least that stops Hawke’s pounding and shouts. “I will be fine.”

Though he isn’t so sure about that.

Solas scans the perimeter of his barrier until his eyes fall where Dhaven’s limp body is resting against the invisible wall. Hawke must have dropped him. Solas wears an exaggerated look of perplexed distress, and then Dhaven’s leg lights up in blue, too bright to face directly. When it fades, the leg has returned to its normal size and color.

“There,” Solas says. “Is this man’s Keeper nearby?”

“She could not make it. But our clans are familiar.” The crowd parts for a woman to step to the front of the barrier. Fenris recognizes her as the nosy elder who’d scolded him for daring to exist at this festival. She beckons to two elves behind her, both carrying staves and wearing beaded bracelets that match her own. “I will take him,” she says, and then her followers are rushing around the ring of the barrier to either of Dhaven’s sides. He makes no protest as they lift him and carry him away. Perhaps this time he truly has gone into shock.

“Fenris,” Solas says, turning his whole attention back to the only other person in his circle.

“You used me.”

“On the contrary. We had an agreement, did we not?” Solas inclines his head in a mockery of puzzlement. “You would offer my friends protection, and I would release you from your bindings.” He spares a glance in Hawke’s direction. “And protection of your own, of a sort.”

Solas then turns to where Lavellan is standing. Lavellan clearly has no interest in even attempting a step forward, while the Iron Bull has his axe raised high and is slamming it down on air that hardens into white stone whenever it is struck. “Hello, Inquisitor. It has been a while. You look well.”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Solas?” Iron Bull shouts over the _crichk_ and _clang_ of his axe colliding with stone. The weapon screeches like it may shatter; the barrier doesn’t even shake. Fenris knows which will win this battle.

“Please, Iron Bull. Save your energy. There’s no need to sully this reunion with violence,” Solas says. “You and I concluded our business years ago.”

From the distressed look that puts on Lavellan’s face and his whispers that finally convince Iron Bull to lower his axe, Fenris suspects that being of no more use to Solas is the greatest vulnerability one could have.

“Fen’Harel then, is it?” Merrill says from beside Hawke. “You’re less wolf-y than I imagined.”

_“Did she say — “_

_“Fen’Harel?”_

The name is echoed around every side of the circle. Voices erupts in gasps and whispers from anyone who had not yet figured out the symbolism of the coat with white fur encircling Solas’s neck.

“Yes,” Solas says, and even that is enough to return the crowd to silence. “Though I suppose Fenris is a better embodiment of our namesake.”

Lavellan slams his hand down on the barrier. “Get out of here. You never had any interest in the Dalish. Stop pretending you do now.”

“Do I not? The path to rebuilding our world will not be an easy one. It will take courage, resilience, and pride — all things the Dalish have no shortage of.”

Lavellan eyes Solas the way that Hawke would surely look at Fenris if he began spouting praises of the Imperium and their resourcefulness. “You’re right,” Lavellan says. “But you don’t believe a word of that.”

Solas doesn’t acknowledge the accusation. It’s his word against Lavellan’s, and only one of them is singing the praises of the crowd. And while Fenris wouldn’t lift a finger for the sake of Lavellan’s reputation, he knows the risks of the scales tipping too heavily in Solas’s favor. But he has one idea that could rebalance them, and so he asks, “Did you know they’d try to kill Lavellan? Was that your doing?”

Fenris understands Solas by now. He’s not an outright liar, not like Iron Bull — or Hawke, when he’s trying to get them out of a mess of his own creation. Solas lies by omission, and the brief pause Solas takes to consider the question tells enough of the story. “I had no part in that,” he eventually says.

Iron Bull sees the careful craftsmanship behind that answer as well. “You’re a fucking bastard,” he bellows, slamming his fist down on the barrier so hard that Fenris would be surprised if he didn’t break a bone.

Solas may not have ordered Lavellan’s death. But Fenris now has a damn good guess of how Dhaven pulled a knife out of nowhere.

Somehow, Solas makes shutting his eyes give off the same disparaging attitude that rolling them would. When he opens them again, Fenris is under the gaze of a beast wearing a friendly smile.

“Well, young wolf,” Solas says. “I thank you for dutifully holding up your end of the bargain. Now, allow me to do the same.”

“Wait! Don’t listen to him — “ Lavellan shouts, but a ring of blue flashes around Solas’s pupils, and then the sound dies. Fenris glances to Lavellan and sees him scowling with his hand wrapped around his throat, while beside him Iron Bull shouts noiseless curses.

“Apologies. It is of utmost importance that my concentration is not broken,” Solas says. He strides towards Fenris. Fenris doesn’t mean to take a step back, but it happens anyways.

“Lethallin, these markings the shem’len have inflicted upon you,” Solas starts. “They are killing you. The lyrium that corrupts your mind, forcing you to straddle the curtain separating our realities — “ He pauses, and for once, the only noise is the soft, chiming hum of the world. “As I have promised, I will grant you your freedom from it.”

Awe. Fear. Worship, in the way that one would worship the fire that consumes a home that holds only bad memories. The crowd waits, watching Solas like he’s a hero, a spirit who’s crossed the Veil to cleanse Fenris of his impurities. A rebirth; a miracle. Fenris’s marking burn with a pain he’s never felt in them before, like they might escape his skin and incinerate the rest of him. This is his chance. He can be free of this. He can glance at his body and not see a reminder of what’s been done to him — a view of himself he’s never been allowed.

And yet …

And yet he’s being used as a weapon, once again. He’d known from the start that Solas intended that for him, but he’d thought it would be in a fight, not whatever this is. In battle, Fenris isn’t the weapon himself — it’s his strength, his power, his agility. Fenris wields the weapon and makes a choice of who to use it against.

But here, Solas never needed his strength. Solas wanted only to use him for a chance to showcase his own power, just as Danarius always would. He wanted him on display. Before, it would be a dining hall, a fighting ring, a bedroom; now it’s a dome of magic that entraps him, giving the crowd a chance to unabashedly leer at him.

Fenris looks to Hawke, and despite the rage pounding in his chest, the sight of Hawke’s brown eyes shining golden in the moonlight eases away some of the regret. No matter how this ends, Hawke will be safe, even if the rest of this world crumbles into ruin.

_And was it worth it?_

Fenris doesn’t know. Maker forgive him, the things he’ll do for this man.

He knows Hawke will tell him to do it — that this is their only chance, that Hawke has already lost everything and that pride will not stand in his way of keeping what’s left. Solas has made his point, has already shown himself merciful and all-powerful. What’s done is done, and maybe if Fenris lives, he can make up for his part in it.

And then Hawke says, “It’s your call, Fen,” and confirms all the reasons Fenris chose to follow him so long ago.

He will never again be a weapon wielded.

Fenris stands tall. Under the blue and gold lights, his markings shine like trails left behind by insects crawling on dirt. He doubts that’s what Danarius intended. They were always meant for the dark, where the pattern would give him the look of a ghost: humanoid enough to register as a threat, but not so much as to be worthy of an empathetic glance. But they’re his, in the end, and he’d rather death than have this be his way out.

“No,” he says to Solas. “I won’t do it.”

Solas’s eyes twitch, but his gala-host smile doesn’t falter. “I know you have not had an easy time here. I wish this event had been a more restful one. But would you not rather leave here with a clear head?”

“No,” Fenris says, and oh, how good that feels. He should’ve kept saying it from the start, back when Solas was just an asshole in his dreams.

“Do you realize that I’m the only one who can fix this? Do you see the reality of what you give up — “

“Oh, would you fuck off already? He’s not your toy.” Both Solas and Fenris turn, and there’s Hawke, rolling his eyes like he always does at any form of authority. “You don’t give a nugg’s shit-stained ass about him. You’re only here to put on a little song and dance for these people. For what? So they join you? So you can all hold hands and pretend to bring back _elven glory_ while you murder the rest of the world?”

The irritation on Solas’s face makes Fenris wonder if he’s going to mute Hawke as well. If he does, Fenris will ensure Solas can never make a sound again either.

Instead, Solas breathes out a weary sigh, like Fenris and Hawke are two children refusing food who will inevitably beg for their meals later. “This is not a small decision for you,” he says. “I recognize that. Your markings offer you protection against a world that would rather see you dead. That is not easy to give up. You were so eager before, but perhaps now is not the best time.” Solas gives him a doubtful glance. “I would be happy to discuss this in private, if that is what you’d prefer.”

Solas speaks as if it’s an inevitability, and, unfortunately, it may well be. Their ties are not yet fully broken, after all, even if one of the rewards has been refused. And while Fenris would give anything for a chance to take a hammer to Solas’s head, there’s still a worse case scenario to prepare for — one that’s looking far more likely by the minute.

“Take care of yourself,” Solas says, and Fenris wants to ask what right he has to say such a thing when he realizes that Solas is speaking to Lavellan instead. Iron Bull’s mouth moves without sound as he lunges forward, likely saying the exact words Fenris had planned to. Lavellan holds him back, a strangely distant on his face, as if he’s lost himself in a memory even in the midst of this chaos.

Solas turns, taking all the time in the world to survey the crowd. Fenris is sure that if any of these elves were to describe the experience later, each and every one would claim that Solas locked eyes with them, a wordless invitation extended to each individual. He spares Fenris the longest glance of them all, then disappears in a whirlwind of green, leaving every eye on Fenris, searching for answers he can’t possibly give.

Iron Bull is back to grumbling profanities. Lavellan is the first one to move, brushing away Iron Bull’s offer of support and limping over to Fenris before even Hawke has realized the barrier is gone. But as soon as Lavellan has taken that first step into the circle, Hawke is rushing past them all and wrapping his arms around Fenris in a suffocating embrace.

Over Hawke’s shoulder, Fenris meets Lavellan’s eyes. He’s stopped only feet away, too close for comfort, and even that amount of walking has Lavellan’s chest heavy. The mottled purples and greens of his skin have him still looking like a corpse dragged from the sea, but in his eyes is a silent, measured fury, building with every second as he stares into Fenris.

“Come with me. We need to talk.”

* * *

Merrill says they should stay nearby to answer questions. Lavellan says she’s free to do as she pleases. Hawke asks if he and Fenris can have a moment alone. Lavellan reminds them that when he’d asked for the same, they’d bound his hands to a tree and forced him to reckon with Iron Bull under Hawke’s watch. So they follow. Merrill’s lantern surrounds their silent trek with shadows that wrap around every tree and beckon Fenris with whispers he knows aren’t real.

Fenris wants to run, to find something to pound his sword against until it or the blade or himself are nothing more than dust. He’s not afraid. Lavellan won’t kill him; in the shape he’s in, he’d be lucky to get even a single strike in before collapsing. Lavellan’s anger takes a different for: one that has him stalking through the woods, never looking back. If anyone is to ask him later, Fenris will say that he followed because he wants answers, and Lavellan is the only one in a position to give them. In truth, he can the dread as all his plans and hopes begin to unravel — the stupid, futile dreams of a long life with Hawke that he never should have allowed to form in the first place — and he’s not ready to sit alone with those consequences just yet.

If he’s lucky, he’ll still have a few months left. That should be enough time to say goodbye.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Lavellan says, and when Fenris comes down from his thoughts, he realizes they’ve stopped. They’re in a campsite, a larger tent to one side, a hammock slung between two trees on the other. “You were — he _sent_ you here. If I’d known that, I could have told you exactly what he was doing, right from the start.”

“You overestimate yourself,” Fenris says, finding a tree broad enough to protect his back. He points his sword at Iron Bull — a gesture, not a threat, but it makes Lavellan stir all the same. “How was I supposed to trust you, after everything he did? I had every reason to believe that telling you would be handing that information directly to the Ben-Hassrath. And we’ve seen what they do with anyone that attracts a vague interest.”

Just as Fenris’s chest has begun to cool, there’s a flash of orange and heat as Merrill ignites a fire in the camp’s pit. Fenris’s jaw clenches. There she goes, proving yet again that she doesn’t need blood to do her spells. After all, why would she bother with blood magic now when there’s no one around to impress?

“You think Bull is with the Qun? Why?” Lavellan asks Fenris. Merrill and Hawke share a glance from where they stand in front of the tent, looking like two sides of the same uncomfortable coin.

Iron Bull is the one to respond. “Because I lied to you, for way longer than I should have. It took all this to get me to uncover my tracks. He had a point.” Fenris is surprised to hear his own words echoed so closely. “But more importantly — _had_ every reason?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Fenris says. Changing his mind isn’t embarrassing. It’s the fact that his only evidence is that his gut can’t reconcile the memory of the man crying, alone, over a dying body with what he knows of the Ben-Hassrath.

Iron Bull looks at Fenris like he can see all the sloppy sentimentality written on his face, and then he smirks. “Ahh. You realized I’m just an asshole, not a spy, huh?”

“Forget all that,” Fenris says, turning from Iron Bull’s chuckling to Lavellan’s pensive face. “If I’d told you, you would have tried to stop me. I’ve seen how you work. Do not forget that I saw how you tried to pardon that girl all because killing her would be an _inconvenience_. You would rather see me die than disturb anything at this mess you call a festival.”

At this, Lavellan sways on his feet. He refuses Iron Bull’s offer of an arm to lean on, opting instead to slump down into the hammock behind him. “Wait,” he says. The hammock swings as he crosses his legs in front of him. “Ghilanna and Shielan — so that why you attacked us. You thought she was an agent, and you were — you’d really kill us, all to save one of Solas’s.”

“I would have been suspicious of you two taking someone hostage in the woods, regardless. The distrust you’ve earned has nothing to do with Solas,” Fenris says. “And no, I was not planning to kill you.”

“You stuck a hand in Bull!” Lavellan gestures wildly at Iron Bull, mouth agape. His perch in the swinging hammock destroys any attempt to look intimidating. “No. I would have worked with you. I could have played along, we could have found a way to get more information from Solas. What a fucking wasted opportunity.” He groans. “Fenhedis. If I’d known — if I had any idea why you were really here, I never would have revealed the truth of the Evanuris. I wouldn’t have told them the Dread Wolf was out there, waiting with open arms, just for you to push everybody into them.”

_He’s arrogant,_ Fenris thinks. Of course he would be, after the world told him he was a Herald and a leader. Someone would need to be far smarter than this mess of a man to slide together so few pieces of information and still come up with a way to flip Solas’s plan on its head.

“So, Hawke,” Iron Bull says. “You knew as well.”

It’s not a question. Lavellan turns to Hawke in enraged horror.

“Uh …“ Hawke starts. “No comment.”

Lavellan’s fist digs into the edge of the hanging canvas, glaring at Hawke like he may attempt to tear it from the trees and throw it at him. Hawke takes a step back and Merrill catches his arm just in time to stop him from trampling the tent.

“Do either of you ever stop and think for even a second?” Lavellan asks. “Solas didn’t need to do shit. I don’t know how he knew you wouldn’t trust me, but I guess I was the fool for ever thinking you would. He knew we’d clash. And he could always step in if we didn’t.”

“I had plans to double cross his agent after all of this,” Fenris says.

“There is no agent! There’s only you, a man without a single fucking moral in sight, and me, a blind, careless idiot,” Lavellan says, and then mutters a string of Elvish curses that have Merrill raising her eyebrows. “Of course Solas would choose you. Who else would be crazy enough to get up and bitch out a bunch of Keepers for their principles? Who else actually gives a shit about the elves without giving two fucks about the Dalish?” He breaks out into frazzled laughter. ”No. It had to be you. You’ve been through everything the people here are afraid of. You’re dying the worst possible death, all because of what the shem’len have done to you. You’re living proof this world isn’t worth saving.” He lets out one final, sardonic cackle. “And Solas is the antidote to it all.”

“You really think this is such a big deal?” Hawke asks. “Come on, there aren’t even that many people here, all things considered. This ain’t an army.”

“No. It isn’t,” Lavellan says. “But these are Keepers, elders, apprentices — when they return to their clans, people will listen. The Dalish are desperate for more than this. They put their trust in me, but if even the power of the Inquisition weren’t enough to make things better — what other hope do they have? Solas is just filling the role that I couldn’t live up to. And you gave him a chance to demonstrate that he’s more than capable of it.” Lavellan hangs his head, mouth curled into a sneer. “I can’t believe you’d agree to this. How selfish are you?”

Fenris glances to Hawke. His feet are set apart like he’s prepped for a fight and his mouth is open and frowning, the last threads of a scathing retort likely being tied together on his tongue. For a second, the wind teases the fire into a shape that casts the perfect frame of light around his face, and his freckles look like specks of gold splattered across clay.

“I had my reasons,” Fenris says.

“Well, it’s not too late to change their minds,” Merrill says, tapping patterns on her staff with aimless fingers. It’s more energy than anyone else has. “Things should be calm over there by now, no? After all, this is the third time this week someone has stood up and yelled wild proclamations at them. They must used to it by this point.”

“How can you be so cheerful?” Lavellan asks.

“Am I? I think you’re being rather dreary,” Merrill says. Lavellan’s scowl deepens. “Why do you think our people would bow down to Fen’Harel so easily? Are we not known for being stubborn? A little display like that isn’t going to sway everyone.”

Fenris doesn’t know where things have ended up between them — the status of a failing relationship hasn’t made his list of concerns — but Iron Bull rests a hand on Lavellan’s shoulder and squeezes. Whatever the intent, it forces the self-pitying expression off Lavellan’s face as he turns to look up at the Qunari. “Come on, Bull,” he says, sliding off the hammock. “Let’s see if we can … I don’t know. Help. Keep them calm. Something.”

This time, when Iron Bull offers his elbow, Lavellan rests his hand on it and allows himself to be led away. “His best game yet, huh?” Iron Bull mutters, and then Lavellan says something unintelligible that makes Iron Bull belt out a derisive laugh. Fenris can only imagine all the snide things Lavellan is saying about him.

When the burst of noise dies away, the night feels even quieter than before. Silence’s melodies take on a dissonant tone that grates at Fenris’s ears. Hawke tries to share a look with the other two Kirkwall refugees, first with Fenris, then with Merrill when Fenris won’t meet his eye. A cold wave of wind passes through the campsite. The hammock creaks. The unstained canvas of the tent clings to the ground by its stakes like the fingernails of someone being dragged away.

Merrill wraps her shawl tight around herself. “Are you alright, Fenris?”

“Are you really asking me that?”

She startles. Of course she does. She must be expecting a _thank you_ , a curiosity over what happened, maybe even an invitation to do it again. She can never do anything wrong, after all.

Her expression softens as she turns down her gaze. “I’m sorry. I had to.”

“Is there a demon in me now?” Fenris demands. “Why did I see — “

“No! No, not at all.” She shakes her head in a frenzy. He doesn’t believe her. “Wait, you — you saw … oh. Oh, no.”

“What did you do to me?”

Popped blood vessels begin to dot Merrill’s bottom as she chews it. Her nails bend into arcs as she digs them into the hard wood of her staff. “This … happens, sometimes. Depending on the strength of the spell, the mind finds it easier to — to go somewhere else.”

“So, what? Was it easier to make me a puppet than to cast a little spell? Or would that have just been less fun?”

It dawns on Hawke. “You did what, Merrill?”

“I — I had no choice,” she says, voice rising. “If I’d warned you, you wouldn’t have had time to get out of the way. I couldn’t hit him without also hurting you.”

Hawke squeezes his eyes shut. From the way he drags his hand down his face, Fenris knows this is more than he wants to deal with tonight. “Did you really have to use blood magic?”

“I was beyond spent trying to heal Lavellan. It was my last resort.” She turns to Fenris, expectant. As if that justifies this. “Was I supposed to let you die?”

_Yes,_ he thinks. He’s already seeing smiles in the shadows that stretch beneath them, and how is he supposed to sleep when a demon could still have its tendrils in him? How can he blink when he knows that opening his eyes could have him back in Tevinter, believing every second of it?

Merrill waits, and she has the gall to relax even a hair. She thinks this will be forgiven; that if Hawke isn’t yelling at her, Fenris will fall in line behind him, obedient and tame.

“No. You did have a choice,” Fenris says. “But you wanted to do this to me. You want me to say that blood magic is fine because it saved my life? I don’t believe for a second that you couldn’t think of anything else. You just wanted to prove a point.”

“No! It wasn’t like that.”

“You always want to flaunt your power, don’t you? Even after everything with your clan, you still won’t give up blood magic. You want everyone to know you’re the smartest one out there. The one who unlocked elven history, who convinced even the runaway slave that magic was righteous.” Fenris sneers when her gaze falls to the dying fire, unable to even look the consequences of her actions in the eye. “No wonder the Qunari came for your mirror. You probably bragged to them about it yourself.”

Merrill’s mouth snaps shut. Her face flushes red, and there are angry tears in her eyes, the sort that leave burning trails of salt down skin. She holds them in. She opens her mouth once more, fists shaking at her sides, and Fenris readies himself for her to scream and cry and call him all the things she’s been too kind to say. Then she shuts it, and leaves between the trees, her shawl sweeping in a black arc behind her like the wings of a crow.

And then they’re alone, and it’s better that way. It always has been. They don’t need Merrill, and they certainly don’t need to waste their time around the likes of Lavellan. Hawke is the one person here he can trust without condition. Fenris presses his fists into his eyes and kicks a shower of dirt over the fire, an involuntary shout coming from the boiling pits of his stomach.

Hawke approaches Fenris like he might bolt at any second. “Fen. I need you to calm down.”

“Calm down?” Fenris spins to face him, his fist swinging down to his side. “She _controlled_ me. Solas used me. How do you expect me to be calm?”

“Fine, yeah, I’m not calm either. How the fuck could I be? When was the last time either of us even slept?” Hawke begins to pace in a tight, frenzied circle. “Maker’s fucking blighted breath. This is — It didn’t have to be like this.”

“What?”

Hawke stops. Is that an eye-roll? Fenris squints in the dim light as Hawke’s face twists into something jaded. Hawke mutters, “I just wish I’d had the chance to leave that damn campsite. All I could do was twiddle my thumbs while shit apparently fell apart around us.”

“Are you saying you believe you would have figured this out?” Fenris asks. “If you’d been around more? If you’d had the grand privilege of murdering a woman and scaling a cliff in the rain?”

“Maybe! I don’t know.” Hawke throws his arms in the air. “You know I’m not sayin’ I’m smarter than you, ‘cause that sure ain’t true. It’s just … you and I notice different things. And maybe the lyrium — “

“You think I missed this because I’m losing my mind.”

“No, no, that’s not what I’m saying — “

“Then what _are_ you saying?”

Fenris wins their stare-down and feels no satisfaction in it.

“Nothing. Sorry,” Hawke says. “What’s done is done.” He reaches a hand out like he may set it on Fenris’s shoulder, an offer of comfort and camaraderie that Fenris dodges with a side step. Hawke’s expression falls. “Fen, I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean — “

Fenris folds his arms across his chest. A log splits apart in the fire, the last splinters holding it together crumbling. Its halves settle in the pile with sharp cracks and pops, punctuating the hush that falls as Hawke doesn’t finish his sentence. After all, what could he say? Any more words would trap him in a lie.

Fenris has the horrific thought that he’d rather like to punch Hawke in the stomach, and that’s how he knows it’s time to leave.

“Leave me alone,” Fenris mutters as he turns, relieved when Hawke doesn’t follow.

* * *

With his head tucked between his knees and his body between two mossy rocks, Fenris may as well not exist. He could rot away here, eyes shut to the shadows haunting his vision, and no one would find him. As it should be. Nothing good comes from someone as broken as him attempting to live a normal life.

The moon is already tilting towards dawn. If he’s slept, he hasn’t dreamed. His feet had dragged him up this hill of their own accord, ever eager to climb to the highest point around. The air is thinner up here, and its lack of scent and sound permits him the luxury of pretending he’s the only person around. He can’t very well return to camp, not when the sight of Merrill will make him sick and facing Hawke will make him even sicker. Hawke will never forgive him for the things he’s said.

He can leave in the morning. No need to say goodbye.

The world’s song grows louder and more shrill by the second. And out of harmony with its own tune, over and over it sings: _was it worth it? Was it worth it? Was it worth it? Was it —_

Fenris slaps his hands over his ears. It’s not real; the whispers never are. What was the point of this if he’s too damn prideful to even accept Solas’s reward? No. He should stop with the lies. He’s not proud. He’s just scared, a scared little puppet that’s broken free of its strings and found it can’t move without them.

But if Hawke is safe, does anything else matter? _Is_ he safe? Or has Solas wrapped up yet another pile of lies into a few vague truths? How typical it would be for Fenris to end up dooming Hawke to some unimaginably horrific fate, all thanks to his good intentions. How long does the world have left? Lavellan spoke as if Fenris had personally guaranteed the end of the world, but … but Lavellan shares that blame as well. And for that matter, who’s to say a few recruits from the Dalish clans will be the linchpin Solas needs?

The song plays a high, screeching note to his left. He swings his fist in its direction, knowing there won’t be anything there, but he wants so badly to hit _something_.

His hand flies straight through Anders and strikes stone.

“Fasta vass!” Fenris cries, clasping his aching hand to his chest. Anders sits besides him, legs crossed, sunken face turned towards the moon. He wears the same damn forlorn expression he always would when they’d sit on the Kirkwall docks, Hawke kicking his legs at the water in between them. “What do you want, mage?”

As always, Anders picks the most infuriating thing to say: which, in this case, is nothing at all. He doesn’t even look at Fenris. He loved to do this: picking a fight, goading him until Fenris bit back, and then refusing to dignify him with any more responses. As if silence somehow made him better.

Fenris jumps to his feet and shouts at the revoltingly serene ghost. “Why are you doing this? Did you just come to laugh at me at my worst?”

Anders laughs soundlessly.

Fenris tries to grab Anders’s throat; it passes through the ghost without even a chill. “Why _you_? Because Hawke would’ve been better off with you? Because you’re the only one who’s just as much of a stupid fucking hypocrite as me?”

Anders grins.

“Or are you just that eager to watch me die too?”

“Fenris!”

Fenris’s head spins to the right. The cry doesn’t come from Anders, it’s coming from down the hill, and it’s real, it has to be — he wants it to be, but there’s no way that —

“Thank the Maker.” Hawke stands before him, the moon lighting up the sweat that passes over his smiling lips. “I found you.”

_How?_ Hawke should be asleep by now, tucked away in the tent they used to share. But his eyes are strangely red, and without warning, he folds over in half, breaths coming in long, shuddering wheezes.

When Fenris glances to his left, Anders is gone.

“What’s happened?” Fenris asks.

“Oh, you know, the usual.” Hawke gasps in another inhale, then sluggishly waves in the direction he’d come from. “Okay, okay. Less talking, more running.”

Running? Nothing good has ever followed Hawke when’s he’s come bursting through a door and yelled at everyone in it to run. Fenris retrieves his sword and nods to Hawke, ready to follow.

Hawke takes one step and trips. Fenris dives forward to catch him before he goes tumbling down the hill, but before his hands have even gotten him steady, Hawke hisses and pulls away.

“Oh,” Fenris says, jerking his hands back and shoving them under his elbows. He couldn’t blame Hawke for not wanting Fenris to touch him. Hawke doubles over and heaves a rasping breath, and that’s when Fenris gets a glimpse of the state of him. The back of his shirt is hanging on by mere threads, burned away to reveal the reds and blacks of charred skin.

Fenris is going to kill whoever has done this. “Your back — “

“I know, I know. But we’ve gotta go, like, now.”

Fenris wishes he could wrap his arm around Hawke’s waist to help him move, but he cannot imagine the pain that would bring. He throws Hawke’s arm around his own shoulder instead and begins to rush east, towards the city and out of this damn forest. He prays that the night is enough to cover them. Fenris can only hope that Hawke’s pained breaths aren’t because the fire has touched his feet. Every pained breath drives him to move faster, get them to safety, find somewhere to hide — but the faster they move, the more Hawke wheezes.

Burning the culprit alive would be the most poetic solution, but Fenris imagines a skinning to be more satisfying.

“You need healing,” Fenris says as they’re passing their now-abandoned camp.

“Merrill’s gonna find us later,” Hawke says, dismissive. “Good to know you’ve still got the habit of climbing when you’re bummed out. Saw that hill and just knew that’s where my Fen would be.”

They pause for a much-needed, extremely brief rest. While Hawke has dragged Fenris running without warning countless times before, this is the first time Hawke has needed to rest the whole of his weight against Fenris’s side. The effort has them both panting.

On his third and decidedly final breath of this rest, Fenris gets a whiff of something in the air.

“Is that smoke?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Hawke coughs. “I, uh, may have fucked up.”

Fenris continues on with newfound speed.

When the lights of Montsimmard are brighter than the torches of the Arlathvhen and the air no longer smells of smoke, they stop, tucking themselves into a corner of darkness where the line of trees end. Fenris does what he can. Hawke doesn’t utter any complaints as Fenris slices away what remains of his shirt, but no amount of gentle fingers can prevent the winces and vulgarities when it comes time for them to sit.

“Drink this, and explain,” Fenris says as he passes over a healing potion. On second thought, he snatches the vial again, uncorks it, and then returns it to Hawke’s hands. Hawke somehow grins as he chugs it down.

“So … where to begin?”

“Anywhere. Stop delaying.”

Hawke wipes his mouth off on his arm. “Alright, alright. So I was looking through one of the tents. There’s one with a bunch of books, tools, magical shit I don’t know the first thing about. And then out of nowhere, _bam_!” Fenris snatches Hawke’s hands the second they lift from his knees, giving them a firm squeeze and resettling them in Hawke’s lap. Even a burned back can’t stop Hawke’s need to illustrate his stories with his hands. “Flames. Everywhere. Obviously, it wasn’t me. But no one else was in there, and, well, I wasn’t really supposed to be there either.” He makes a rolling movement with his hands and glances away. “So … ”

“You now have the whole of the Dalish after you.”

“Not on purpose! But yeah. Iron Bull and Lavellan bought us some time. Started yelling about the fire spreading. Combined with Merrill’s smoke bomb, it wasn’t a half-bad distraction.”

Fenris presses his hands into his eyes. Unbelievable. He steps away for a few hours and this happens. “Why were you there in the first place?”

“Well, Merrill said somebody told her there was some book in there with information that could help — “

“And you believed that?”

“I needed to do _something_. This was my one chance to look for myself, I can’t just sit around on my hands all day, helpless, while you — “ All the energy in Hawke leaks away, like it’s drained from the blisters already forming on his back. “While you die, Fen.”

And there it is. It’s better that Hawke practices saying it now instead of later, when the wounds are fresh and saying his name will feel like salt in them. Fenris wants this to be easier than the others. He wants Hawke to be able to speak of him, not like Carver, who Fenris learned more of from Bethany than he ever did from Hawke. Or his mother, who Hawke so rarely mentions.

“I’m sorry you have to go through this. If I’d known this was my fate — I would never have gone to your estate that day,” Fenris says.

“No. Come on, don’t say that.” Hawke’s hand is hot on Fenris’s wrist. “No matter what happens, I need you to know this: there is a shit-ton about my life I’d go back and fix if I had the chance. But you and me? I wouldn’t change a second of it.”

“Even those three years?”

“Well. My balls lost their blue shade eventually.” Hawke laughs. “Yes. Even those three years.”

The digression has given the potion time to work, though it’s nowhere near as fast as Fenris would like. Every time he looks away, on-alert for any pursuers, another patch of screaming red is covered by a freshly grown layer of Hawke’s tan skin. But there are scales and bubbles that do not heal, and he’s certain they will become yet more scars that Hawke will show off in taverns, accompanied by a different heroic explanation each time. If Fenris had been thinking, he’d have brought a poultice, something he could rub directly into the charred skin and give Hawke the comfort of numbness.

Hawke’s forehead droops until it rests on Fenris’s shoulder. “Maker’s fucking breath,” he whispers, voice hoarse and every exhale strained and shallow. “I was so scared I’d have to leave without you.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t after everything I said.”

“Seriously?” Hawke leans back, a frown darkening his face. “Who do you take me for?”

Fenris didn’t expect his words to affront him like this. Of course Hawke should have escaped on his own, especially when Fenris had been the one to run off in a fit. But Hawke looks at him, expecting an answer that Fenris doesn’t know how to give.

A hero. A fool. The man whose hands Fenris has eagerly placed his heart into, only to find himself lost when given a heart to hold in return.

“I’m sorry,” he decides on. “I suppose we’ve now both fallen for a stupid trick of his.”

“At least your mistake didn’t end with your back on fire,” Hawke chuckles.

If only. It should not be Hawke, keeled over on the ground, paying the price for Fenris’s mistake.

As if he can hear Fenris’s grim thoughts, Hawke groans and nudges his side. “I’ll be _fiiine_ ,” he insists, though his waving hand lifts no higher than his waist. Even that small motion makes him wince, and Fenris feels his expression like it’s a burn upon his own skin.

“You will be,” Fenris whispers. “I will make sure of it.”

Hawke nods like there was never any question about that. “Do you think that tavern would still rent to us after we killed two men in their foyer? Pretty sure there was an apostate running the kitchen.”


	17. Chapter 17

The sun filters through the windows of Skyhold’s highest tower like light through the sails of an aravel. Nebel should open them; he can’t be bothered to. When Josephine comes to fetch him later, she’ll wear a look of disapproval as her nose crinkles at the earthy smell of smoke that fills the room.

But Bull doesn’t seem to care. Bull is sorting through the hills of loot dumped unceremoniously on Nebel’s desk, the one covered in papers he should be reading. Bull makes his three usual piles: useless, interesting, and pretty. He hangs a few of the pinker gems around the room — more decorating than Nebel has ever taken the time for in these chambers he supposes are now his closest thing to a home.

“Hey, kadan.”

“Mmm.”

“How do your people like to mourn? Well, not _like to_ , but, you know. Traditions,” Bull says, twisting a hanging gem until the sun catches on it just right and it scatters orange light across the room. What a stilted question. Nebel gets the feeling that Bull has been trying to find the right way to phrase it for hours and come up short. “In Seheron, we’d have a few laughs, maybe share a drink if there was any to spare. Bit different back in Par Vollen. Those folk frown on that sort of thing — it’s just one drop of blood spilled, new ones will fill the veins soon, blah blah blah. Seheron was more my style.”

Nebel focuses on the smoldering tip of his cigarette and thinks of campfires.

“Kadan,” Bull says as he comes to sit on the edge of the bed. He lays the word down with the same care as the hand he rests on Nebel’s knee.

“Fine. I don’t know.” Nebel shrugs his right shoulder. The left has been hurting more recently — he should talk to Solas about that. “We burn messages for them. Bid farewell to the spirit. And then … it depends. Someone usually writes their history.” _A din’andirth,_ he thinks, though the thought of speaking any Elvhen makes him want to choke. “And then we pray, sing, whatever.”

Bull nods, taking in all the information like the good spy he used to be. “Huh. Guess we aren’t so different after all,” he says with a smile. And then his finger taps on Nebel’s knee, once, twice, three times before it seems he’s finished running through the outcomes of all the possible things he could say. He lands on: “You know, if you ever wanted to — “

“Stop, Bull. Just … don’t.” Bull’s hand tightens. Nebel rolls over, unable to look at that face anymore, not when water is already building in his eyes and he swore weeks ago that he’d never cry at this. “I have no choice. If I let myself stop now — “

Then the world will end, quite literally, and there will be no one to blame but him.

* * *

Ten years ago, Keeper Deshanna had returned from the Arlathvhen with a tension in her jaw that didn’t leave for weeks. It had only been a few years since his ear had been taken, and like the stubborn, defiant young man he’d become in that time, Nebel had made sure he’d been out hunting when she’d arrived. He’d wanted to go with her, so badly that he’d stormed off for a day, or two, or maybe longer — he can’t remember. But without her or Second Enasa around, few of the clan had been willing to make more than passing conversation with him. There’d been a rumor going around that he’d snuck off two moons ago and fucked a shem at the town they’d passed — the same reason Keeper Deshanna had said she couldn’t trust him to behave on the journey.

But Deshanna had found him even still and told him stories of the Arlathvhen — the lights, the dancing, the songs from clans who lived in places with rhythms far different than their own. She’d told him they were fortunate that the Blight had not hit them as hard as so many other clans; that the numbers left untouched had been lower than she’d hoped. She’d told him that she was happy he was alive, that he’d been born and survived all that he had, and that she was so, so lucky to get to return home and find him safe and sound.

He’d told her that the rumors were true.

“There’s four days left,” Nebel says to Bull, once the Keeper with the nose identical to Deshanna’s leaves. “But between Ghilanna, and the fire … I doubt there will be much celebration.”

Though nearly every elf at the Arlathvhen seems to have gathered in the ceremony grounds, it’s the quietest it’s been all week. Across the clearing, shovels crunch into ash and rubble and dirt. A woman is humming a lullaby, though the sun has barely risen. Almost inaudibly, someone’s composure gives way and they let out one single, choked cry. “Makes sense,” Bull says.

“You don’t need to stick around if you don’t want to.”

“Do you want me here?” Bull asks. They stand where the dirt road fades into nothing but grass, the arbitrary entrance to the space. Nebel takes a moment to consider his answer: he does, but he doesn’t. He wants Bull’s help; he doubts that his presence will be welcome. He only realizes how long he’s been silent when Bull winks and says, “Snap twice and I’ll leave.”

“You’re a tit.”

“Sure. But tit’s not our watchword,” Bull says, and Nebel smiles even as he rolls his eyes.

There’s an old restlessness that won’t leave him be. He’s going to drive himself mad if he can’t find some way to make himself useful. Bull suggests they help with shoveling out the ashes, but Nebel shuts that down — neither of them are in the proper shape to be of any help there. Then, as if on command, Bull’s stomach growls to break the dreary mood. Nebel grins at the clockwork of it. Every other day this week, there’s been a handful of communal pots perpetually stewing in the ceremony grounds. But looking around now, Nebel doesn’t see a single one brewing. The only smell lingering in the air is that of smoke, and not the kind that makes his mouth water.

“Sorry,” Nebel says. “No one’s really in the mood to cook today, I guess.”

“You can, though.”

“What?”

“You’re a damn fine cook. Why don’t you do it?”

Nebel tries to gauge from Bull’s expression if he’s joking. By all means, it looks like he isn’t. “Bull. Solas launched an attack last night — we can’t just sit around and make stew.”

“Why not?”

“It’s silly,” Nebel insists. “Do you really think I could’ve stopped the Venatori if I’d just shown up and served them a hot bowl of da’enansal?”

“Well, we never tried.”

Now that he’s looking for it, Nebel sees people popping berries in their mouths and taking bites of dried meats — the meals of people trying to fill their stomachs only so that they can continue working. And he remembers how much it had meant to him when Bull, or Sera, or even Solas had brought him something warm and comforting.

“Alright,” he says. “Sure. Let’s do it.”

Bull gathers, pots, bowls, knives; people laugh at the Qunari wandering through the grounds, every cooking utensil imaginable stacked high on his shoulders. Nebel goes from stall to stall and trades for the beans and herbs he needs, though most people reject the coin he offers in exchange. The silly feeling doesn’t leave, but eventually Nebel gets so wrapped up in teasing Bull about his knife cuts and teaching him how to properly pop the seeds from an embrium pod that he forgets about it. They start attracting attention once the heat pops the seeds open and spicy smell of da’enansal wafts through the air. With the number of eyes on them, Nebel wishes he’d made more.

Two mages stop by, briefly, just to savor the smell and make eyes at the Qunari trying to sort out leaves from stems. Nebel remembers they were apprentices — siblings, actually. Bull gives them a wink, and Nebel hopes he didn’t also look so much like a shocked halla when he first met Bull.

The apprentices leave, and Nebel’s stomach drops when he hears one say the words _dream_ and _wolf_ in the same sentence as they walk into the woods. To follow them would be to silence them, so as much as Nebel wants to hear the half-truths Solas has been feeding these people, he stays where he is. This place feels strange without music. Watching a Keeper silently cry as she slams her shovel into ash, he has to accept that Solas was likely a very social man after the fire went out.

“Is this really all we can do?” Nebel asks Bull as he adds another splash of apple vinegar. “I feel like our window of time to act is closing, and we’re doing — this.”

“You still got some of that anti-dreaming potion? Maybe we should, you know, tip a lil’ bit in here.”

Nebel laughs. “Brilliant idea. Delay the inevitable by a night and get my name down as the bastard who drugged the Arlathvhen.”

Bull doesn’t return the grin Nebel gives him. He frowns at Bull’s uncomfortable face, wondering what he could have said to — _oh_.

“Sorry,” Bull mutters. “Not my finest joke.”

With how easy things have felt between them since Nebel’s rescue and all the chaos of yesterday, he hasn’t had the energy to even think about their issues. But there’s no forgetting that Bull once upon a time did _tip a lil’ bit_ into Merrill’s drink, and as sympathetic as he may be to the loss of all their artifacts, he did once steal what could have easily been the most valuable one of all.

Nebel sighs and refocuses his attention on the beans that have started to peel their skins. Remove the pot from heat. Stir a handful of embrium seeds into it — good for immunity. Mix until dissolved, and hope that the awkward silence goes with it. It doesn’t. Nebel adds another pinch of seeds.

He tries a spoonful, and at last, it tastes like a passable version of how the Hearthmaster used to make it, if not a little more spicy. He gives Bull a thumbs-up.

“Soup’s ready!” Bull yells, startling Nebel into dropping his spoon.

“It’s not soup, Bull.”

“Still ready, though.”

People come by, uncertain and then eager. While Nebel holds the bowls, Bull ladles in small helpings — Nebel apologizes for the size at first, wanting to make sure everyone gets something, but no one minds. Better a small taste than none at all. So instead of apologies, he starts to ask people of their clan, the hunt, the seasons. Any children that may have joined the clan, any elders that may have left it. And for a moment, it feels like how he always imagined the Arlathvhen would.

He introduces Bull as his friend, even as _vhenan_ sticks between his teeth.

“Last night,” a man starts, his tone bordering accusatory even as waits for his bowl to be filled. “Why did you defend that shem?”

Nebel is careful to keep any defensiveness out of his voice. “Hawke didn’t start the fire. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“A dozen Keepers couldn’t quell those flames.”

“Hawke’s not a mage.”

The man accepts his helping with a bow of his head. “Perhaps not. But he’s the Champion of Kirkwall. You truly think he couldn’t get his hands on an enchanted firestarter?”

Considering even the most skilled artificers generally turn green at the thought of making one of abominations: no, not really. And beyond that — “He wouldn’t. Fen’Harel just needed a scapegoat.”

The man stares into the bowl and shakes his head, like the da’enansal is a friend he can commiserate with. “May the Creators watch over you,” he says with a look that Nebel can only pin down once the man has disappeared into the crowds.

It’s sympathy. Pity for the madman speaking of trickster gods like they’re anything but stories.

When the pot has run down, Bull and Nebel scrape the remnants off the sides of the pot and divvy it between them. Just as the last bits have been scooped out, the two apprentices return from the woods and ask that they might take over and make another batch. After all, they say, it’s easier to keep the pot stewing than to start fresh. Nebel agrees, largely because the idea of cleaning a pot this big makes him desperate for a nap.

Nebel leads Bull to the eastern woods, the only place they might find a fragment of privacy. He wishes Bull could climb a tree without risking coming tumbling to the ground — that’s how he always found a moment of solitude, back before all this.

“Now this is some good shit.” Bull hasn’t finished his sentence before he’s got the spoon back in his mouth. It’s not bad, Nebel thinks. It sits in his stomach better than most food these days.

“What did you think about last night?” Nebel asks.

“Last night? Hmm.” Bull takes a pause; Nebel knows he doesn’t need it. Bull had been awake all night, almost certainly because he’d been calculating Solas’s next move. Nebel would have been up and at it with him, if not for the fact that he still felt like death. “He’s sowing chaos. Pinning that shit on Hawke was an easy win.”

“The destruction of our history. An easy win. If he ever does tear down the Veil, I hope his precious Arlathan burns to the fucking ground.”

“I’ll bring the oil.”

Of course Solas recruited Fenris, knowing he’d inevitably bring Hawke with him. Hawke is a more believable culprit than some trickster god. This wouldn’t be the first time the humans erased any parts of elvhen culture they could get their hands on. The fact that’s he’s the Champion, supposedly a friend to the People, just makes the wound sting more.

Bull’s spoon plunges into Nebel’s bowl, stealing an unfairly large helping of beans before Nebel can fight it off. “Hey!”

“You know what they say in Seheron.” Bull sticks the spoon in his mouth and continues while chewing. “You gotta eat the dick-devouring worms before they eat you.”

“Tell me that’s not real.” But Bull doesn’t, and now that’s an image even a brand of tranquility couldn’t get out of Nebel’s head. He wipes off a drop of Bull’s spit from his arm with an eye-roll. Another lands, and he opens his mouth to tease Bull for his awful manners when a crash of thunder echoes through the woods.

He looks up just as the clouds open and unleash a torrent of rain.

“Well, damn,” Nebel mutters, grinning as he hears his own words in unison with Bull’s. Most of the elves around rush to tents and groves of trees. Others who wear the neutral colors and thin garments of the northern tribes step out into the rain with faces lifted and arms outstretched. A rare blessing, for those so used to sand.

“Iron Bull!”

Nebel snaps his head to the left to see a hand waving them down. Marelwyn. She’s under an open-sided tent, one isolated in a clearing far from any trees or other structures. The only other person there is an older woman, dressed in an apron, who looks up with surprise — Keeper Nydharani.

“Nebel! Get over here!” Marelwyn calls, her words punctuated by the rain that the trees over them can no longer hold at bay.

An orange glow lights up her face, radiating in a broad circle around the tent — a lantern? No. It’s too much light for that. Nebel squints and leans forward, and it’s when Marelwyn steps to the side that he makes out an earthen cylinder that takes up most of the space under the tent, surrounded on three sides by a wall of bricks. Nydharani pours a viscous liquid into it from a jug she holds between two leather mitts. Oh. A clan must have brought their kiln — most clans don’t bother having their own, considering the number of halla it takes to lug those behemoths around.

A hand lands on his shoulder. He looks up to see Bull is already standing, pointing his chin in the direction of the tent.

“Oh, Bull, no, it’s fine — “

“A cold would be enough to knock you back to the edge of death. Come on, we’re going.”

Bull walks too quickly for Nebel to stop him. Well. Shit. If Nebel were to rush forward and pull him back now, he’d also need to come up with an excuse for so rudely rejecting their invitation. In truth, he doesn’t know why he’d rather get soaked than find shelter with them. Something about bringing Bull back to a Keeper sets his heart racing.

But he follows anyway. Bull ducks under the tarp, just barely avoiding tearing it with his horns. The tent is held up on four stilts while a taller fifth elevates the center, allowing the rain to fall from the roof like the sheer curtains the Orlesians would hang around their beds. Marelwyn has a flat board on her lap, a quill tucked between her ink-stained fingers, and a stack of parchment on the dry ground beside her. Nydharani closes the kiln as they approach, but a smell lingers with the heated air. It’s not just the burning oil — there’s something herbaceous about the scent that Nebel knows but cannot place. She greets them with a nod, wiping the sweat from her forehead as she sits beside a stack of unglazed ceramics.

“Aneth ara,” Marelwyn says. She flicks her quill towards an empty space on the ground. “Go on, get warm.”

Bull sits there first, unabashedly shaking the drops of water off his arms as he crosses his legs. “Thanks, Mar.”

What _is_ this smell? It’s floral, but also … earthy? He’s definitely made something like this before, maybe not with the Inquisition, but back when —

The others are staring at him. Oh. Right. He’s the only one standing, and he’s forgotten all his manners. “Ah, forgive me, Keeper Nydharani, this is Iron Bull, my … friend.”

“A pleasure to meet you. It’s good to put a name to the face of the man towering over us all,” Nydharani says with a tip of her head as Nebel sits beside Bull. “I see you already know Marelwyn here.”

“Are you from the same clan?” Nebel asks.

“Creators, no,” Marelwyn says. “You think I could follow all of Nydharani’s rules? She’d have me stuck in an aravel in a week.”

“You are not so much trouble,” Nydharani says, grinning softly as she caps the jug of kiln fuel. “Not nearly as much as your father.”

Marelwyn snorts and points at Nydharani with her quill. “My mother married into the Vahari not long after I was born. She got so sick of my father that she bailed on the whole clan!” She laughs. “And can you blame her?”

“Um,” Nebel says. “No?”

“See? You get it,” Marelwyn says, swirling the ink and scanning the page to find where she’d left off, while Nebel wonders what exactly he’s agreed with. It’s far from the first time he’s been asked his opinion on some issue he has absolutely no memory of. Cullen had blamed many a migraine on Nebel’s tendency to space out during conversations over the War Table.

Bull won’t stop chuckling at Nebel’s bafflement. Unhelpful bastard is somehow always in on the joke.

In an effort to find new subjects to talk about, Nebel flashes back to that awful moment outside Solas’s circle, walled away and silenced. It’s the topic on everyone’s mind, unquestionably, though he’s not sure whether these two would rather just enjoy a moment of peace. He definitely would. Then again, Nydharani had been the brave soul willing to step forward and claim his attempted murderer, so it seems she’s not the sort to shy away from anything.

“How is Dhaven doing, then?” Nebel decides to ask her. Marelwyn’s quill spins in the ink as if it’s a whisk beating the toughest of doughs, while Nydharani delicately unfolds a white cloth in her lap.

“Recovering,” Nydharani says, and leaves it at that. “But what about you two? You were both quite close to the fire last night.”

Nebel shifts his gaze to a reaction-less Bull. Bull appears transfixed on the mechanics of the kiln, especially the three plugged holes that one would use to check the temperature. Regardless of how fascinated he may be, Nebel knows Bull wouldn’t miss that veiled question. He may be deferring to Nebel, trusting him to handle the tangled hierarchies of how one treats the Keeper of a different clan. Or the silence is a response in itself, an offered cup that Bull trusts Nydharani won’t let sit empty.

He’s right. Nydharani’s tight smile turns a touch less tense after a moment. “Worry not,” she says, turning her eyes down to a bowl as she wipes it with a white cloth. “Whether or not that human bears the blame, I understand wanting to protect a friend.” The cloth comes away stained brown and gray, identical to the dozen others in the pile she discards it on. “But if you see him, do send him back our way.”

“He’s a hard one to find,” Bull says.

Nydharani picks up one of the bowls and turns it over, running a finger over one of the curling, twisting lines carved into its surface in a pattern Nebel recognizes as a tribute to Sylaise. “So is your Nebelir’vunema, apparently,” she says, giving the pot an approving nod as she swaps it for another. “I thought my eyes were seeing Fade shadows when you both came over the edge of that cliff.”

Bull tears his gaze away from the kiln and prods Nebel’s shoulder with a goading grin. “Vunema? You got a title around here now?”

“No?” Nebel says. He pauses. _Wait._ No … There’s no way. With raised brows and a tilted chin, he slowly looks up at Bull. “Have I never … do you not know my full name?”

Bull’s expression falls. He looks like he’s swallowed one of Sera’s many bees. “Uh.”

“I can’t believe — really?” Nebel blinks, over and over, and he can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity. “I always assumed you knew.”

Marelwyn shakes with laughter she’s barely holding in, while Nydharani smiles with a more restrained amusement.

“What was it again?” Bull asks.

“Nebelir’vunema,” Nebel sounds out. He’s unsurprised that Bull butchers it, swapping the _v_ for a _b_ and hardening the _a_ he apparently never knew was there. Marelwyn finally loses control and lets out a squeal of laughter as Bull actually flushes a shade darker.

Nydharani shakes her head with a tight grin. “You’ll have to be able to say it right if you ever want to marry.”

Nebel finds himself too busy coughing on his own spit to see if Bull has a reaction to that. Marelwyn cackles. Nydharani looks completely, horrifically serious.

“So, you speak any Qunlat then?” Marelwyn asks. “Please tell me you at least know _his_ name.”

“Er … a little. Not well,” Nebel says.

Bull wiggles his brows and leans in close, a shit-eating smile on his face. “Go on, _Nebelir’vunema_.”

Fuck. That time was actually pretty close. “Um,” Nebel starts, trying to remember any phrases that don’t have to do with murder, sex, or both. “Ralneedan — saar’thek?”

“Ha! You sound like you’ve been drinking from the sap barrels.” Bull laughs. “Spit a little more on the _th_ ’s.”

Nebel glares. Under his breath, he mutters, “I’ll spit a little more on you.”

“Hot.”

Nydharani doesn’t seem to hear. Marelwyn certainly does, smirking as she tucks her chin to her chest and stretches out her wrists in a series of movements that he’s come to recognize as the surest sign someone is an appointed scribe.

He asks, “Did you need help, Marelwyn? I’m … well, I’ve got plenty of experience with documents, reports, all that sort of thing now. Really, the humans love them. Could hardly eat a meal without someone asking for a signature. If you need help recording, rewriting, anything like that — ”

Marelwyn holds up a hand, tilting her head back with an exasperated sigh. “Oh, stop. Why do you think we have so many scribes? There are backup records. Some here, some there — heard of a clan up in Antiva with an aravel full of them.” Her quill lifts, ending the page with one long trail of black, and she replaces it with new blank sheet on her board. “No, the artifacts aren’t coming back. And I’m sure your clan had their own artifacts they chose to keep at home, too.” Bull’s eye shifts over to him and doesn’t leave until Nebel manages to swallow the lump in his throat and nod. “You see? What we lost is only a fragment of what we have.”

“Oh.”

Marelwyn returns to her work, lips moving silently as she fills the page, her back turned to the outside. What were only trickles a few minutes ago are now streams of rain rushing down the sides of tents, pooling into puddles at their bases. The only good part of the storm is that the sweet smell of wet grass has overtaken the scent of ash. To their right, a group of children run from the apprentices put in charge of watching them, laughing as they jump into muddy water and see who can soil the others with the biggest splash.

He doesn’t know what’s on his face that makes Nydharani smile, sad and knowing. “It really is your first Arlathvhen, hmm?”

It is. And if it’s his last, he can accept that — but he hopes that it goes on for the rest of them.

The rain shows no sign of letting up. Neither do the children’s laughs. And in the warmth of the kiln, he finally recognizes the scent of that burning oil. The roots of a speckled lily, crushed into the petals of crystal grace — it keeps the bugs at bay. The Hearthmaster had taught him the recipe, helping him sprinkle it over the fire, both of them laughing as the pink powder dusted their noses.

He can’t think of this now. He opens his bag, trying to move slow even as his mind is in a frenzy, and his hands grip herbs, charcoal sticks, and —

“Bull,” Nebel gasps quietly. He pulls Bull in close by the horn, then points down into his open bag that’s usually crammed to the brim.

Bull’s brows furrows for a second before they raise and he grunts, “Well. That’s not good.”

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Merrill had known where Hawke and Fenris had disappeared to. She had not said much else to Nebel, other than that she’d heard his da’enansal was good, if not a little heavy on the embrium seeds. She’d apparently been too busy cataloging what was left to remember to eat anything. Nebel made a mental note to set some aside for her next time, then scolded himself for thinking of _next times_ when Merrill has made clear she’d rather their paths stay parallel.

When Nebel gets to the inn, he goes straight to the stairs. He doesn’t want to risk the attention of someone here piecing together the missing arm and the vallaslin, not when he already knows exactly where he’s going. The city elf messenger Hawke had sent to Merrill had passed along a room number, and Merrill thankfully hadn’t withheld that information.

Hawke opens the door only after Nebel announces who’s knocking. Nebel is glad to have caught him at a decent time; he’s less glad when he realizes that Hawke is entirely alone in the room. Still, Hawke lets him in, and then Nebel is hesitantly sitting on the bed opposite Hawke’s own while Hawke folds his arms and looks like he’s got appointments waiting, despite the recently crumpled sheets.

Even back at Skyhold, Nebel hadn’t been able to place why he’d had such trouble talking anything but tactics with Hawke. If he had to take a guess, it would be that Hawke had also once been thrust into a leadership role without warning, and he therefore knows better than anyone that Nebel has been a terrible imposter from the start.

“Are you doing alright?” Nebel asks. A safe place to start.

“Well, my back still feels like stale jerky, but besides that, can’t complain.”

Nebel nods, then — Shit. It’s his turn to say something, again. “I know you didn’t start the fire,” he goes for. “I didn’t think Solas would take things so far, so quickly. I’ll prove that it was him, somehow.”

“I really don’t care what they think. It won’t be the first time I’ve had an entire population hunting me down.” Hawke makes a tiny shrugging motion that shifts his bandages around in a way that can’t feel pleasant. “But I get that it’s not gonna help their opinion of us.”

“Us? Do you mean, humans, or like — ?” Nebel gestures between the two of them, unsure how else to sum up this strange group they’ve become.

“Sure, yeah, both.”

Nebel looks for another entrance to continue this stilted conversation. Hawke beats him to it. “So, when I wrote you,” he says. “You spread word to your altus buddy, but you never wrote me back.”

Oh. Nebel hadn’t even thought of how that must have come across. He’d been a bit off-put by Dorian writing Hawke directly, but he hadn’t wanted to call out his friend for wanting to help. It had seemed harmless at the time.

“I’ve been investigating on my own, a bit,” Nebel says. “I just wanted to get more real information before writing you.”

“Oooh, nice dodge.”

Nebel considers leaving and waiting downstairs until Fenris returns, but hanging around a room full of so many humans on his own would be inviting its own form of trouble. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have told him. I get that now. I know you don’t want people in the Imperium finding out about this. I’m sure his old — well, I’m sure there are people still after him, considering, well, even just that amount of lyrium must be worth — “ He stops himself when Hawke gives him a dirty look. Not a great subject, then. “But Dorian is trustworthy. Truly. Ever since he went back to Tevinter, he’s been doing what he can to abolish slavery.”

“Want me to send him a medal?”

Nebel flinches. “I’m sorry, really. But I thought if he knew a cure, you wouldn’t particularly care if it came from him.”

“Saving Fenris isn’t worth anything if he’s hunted down right after.”

And, really, that’s fair. Nebel cringes at his own vague memories of pleading with Dorian not to send help from Tevinter, even as he’d nearly bled to death. Once again, his good intentions have landed another elf in danger. He really should stop acting on them. “Yeah. I guess you’re right,” Nebel mutters.

He hopes that’s the end of that. Predictably, Hawke lets another tense silence take over the room. Nebel figures he may as well get the rest of this errand over with. Honestly, though, he’s disappointed. He’d kind of wanted the chance to pass his gift on through Fenris, just for the amusement of his confusion.

“Hey. Um … here.” Nebel pulls a small bundle from his bag, tied with twine. “Fenris mentioned you smelled like this sometimes, and, well, I thought you could use it.”

Hawke takes the elfroot from Nebel and snorts. “Hah. I guess I could. It has been a while. Thanks.”

“It might help Fenris too? Cullen had luck with it, when the lyrium withdrawal was at its worst.”

“Mmm, yeah, I don’t know about that.” Hawke raises the bundle to his nose. His eyebrows lift in appreciation of the scent — Nebel smiles. The supply he’d bought that morning was indeed of particularly high quality. “So is that why you came here? Making your delivery rounds?”

“I thought it might help with the burns. I brought a few healing potions as well. Freshly made.” Nebel sets the vials on the table. Hawke looks strangely caught off-guard.

“Thanks. That’s … pretty nice of you, actually.” Hawke chews his lips, then holds the herbs up between two blistered fingers. “You want some?”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Just crack the window, will you?” Hawke stretches out across one of the beds as he unties the twine. “It’d be rude not to share a gift.”

Nebel does. He offers to share his pipe, but Hawke says he’d rather roll his own cigarette. Nebel sits against the headboard of the other bed and nurses his pipe and tries not to let the awkwardness ruin his buzz. Unfortunately, it seems that Hawke’s preferred state of being high is lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling — or maybe that’s only because of the present company.

“So, Fenris says you got a case of the voices,” Hawke says, after a few minutes or an hour.

“What?”

“Is it a demon? Oh, sorry, a spirit, I mean. Or is it just your head?”

Nebel wonders if Fenris truly thinks he’s gone crazy, or if Hawke is putting words in his mouth. He’d believe it either way. “You mean the well?”

“Did you forget a word in there?”

“Hah, no. It’s a well — like, a pool of water. Kind of. It’s … complicated.” Nebel coughs when Hawke looks at him blankly. “Long story short, I’ve got a bunch of ancient elves that yell at me sometimes.”

“Huh. Sounds like Merrill’s sort of party.”

“I’ve been asking them about Fenris, you know. To see if they know how to help.”

“And?” Hawke feigns disinterest, but Nebel sees the way his eyes shift to him.

“No luck, so far,” Nebel says. Hawke looks disappointed, and Nebel has to fight the instinct to tell him that on the walk to the inn, he’d sworn he’d heard whispers from the well, more clear than he has in months. But there’s no point in giving him false hopes, as much as he’d like to be helpful. “I don’t know. It’s hard to tell what they’re saying, even when they aren’t pissed at me.”

“Well, cool. That’s about as useful as tits on a bull.”

Nebel stares down at his pipe. Hawke makes even less sense than most humans. “Bull doesn’t have tits,” he mutters.

Hawke snorts. “He’s got better tits than most women I’ve slept with.”

Nebel lets himself sink a little deeper into the bed. Nebel watches as the rain falls through the open window, accumulating in a puddle on the wooden floors. The innkeeper isn’t going to be happy about that. He should head back soon. He wonders what Bull is up to — alone, stuck in the rain, probably bored out of his mind. Maybe he’s helping cook again. Or maybe he’s out making friends, entertaining people with his questionably true stories.

“So how long do you think Stroud survived in the Fade?” Hawke suddenly asks. Nebel wonders if he gets off on seeing people squirm.

“A week, maybe?” Nebel says, trying to sound nonchalant about it, even as his stomach twists as the thought.

“Ouch. I hope it was quicker than that.”

A possibility comes to mind, and, well, Nebel would rather run from this conversation than continue it, but the thought just won’t leave. And if Hawke isn’t going to steer them away from the uncomfortable, why should he?

So Nebel asks, “Are you mad that I chose him to stay behind instead of you?”

Hawke considers it a second too long. “Nah. _In death, sacrifice_ , right? Maybe he woulda done a better job rebuilding the Wardens though. I wasn’t much help there.” He chuckles dryly as he shuts his eyes. “And Fenris also woulda come ripped your heart out. Might have been harder to kill Corypheus with you dead. What with that funky hand and all.”

“Right.”

“I’m just tired, you know?” Hawke mutters, and Nebel really, really does. “But you seem to get on alright without that arm, all things considered.”

“I guess. I didn’t at first. But Bull’s been patient, and … I don’t know. It can’t be easy for him either.”

“Yeah, I’m guessing one hand just isn’t enough for someone that size.”

Nebel blinks, and he thinks he misunderstands until he looks up and sees Hawke baring his teeth in a self-pleased smile. “That is … wildly inappropriate.” And yet still Nebel finds himself grinning. “Congratulations on being the first person to have the balls to make that joke, though.”

Hawke cackles, and Nebel shakes his head. Varric’s books at least got Hawke’s horrific sense of humor across.

At the sound of a key in the lock, Hawke stomps out what’s left of his cigarette and kicks the evidence under the bed. Nebel snuffs his pipe and hides it under the pillow in solidarity. He’s not going to rat Hawke out to Fenris, but he is absolutely never going to stop laughing at the fact that he knows something about Hawke that Fenris does not.

It’s been a decent high. That is, until Hawke jumps over to the bed Nebel is sitting on and grabs his arm as he sprawls himself across the mattress.

“Shit, we’ve been caught!” Hawke cries out as he hides his grin behind his hand. “Fenris, my love, I’m so sorry — ”

For as much as Nebel is unamused, Fenris is ten times more so. The cranky elf stands at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed, sparing Nebel a single glance before his exhausted eyes fall on Hawke.

“What is he doing here?” Fenris asks.

“I just couldn’t resist those — “ Hawke looks over Nebel and takes an offensively long pause. “Those incredibly scrawny legs. Oh, how they bring back memories of the farm, back when I’d have to wrangle the chickens — “

“Fuck, you’re such an asshole,” Nebel mutters.

“Forgive me, darling — “ Hawke begs, refusing to free Nebel’s arm as he crawls to his knees and looks up at Fenris with brown lashes fluttering over pleading eyes. He grabs Fenris’s hand like he might kiss it, and Nebel looks away.

A tiny shock travels up Nebel’s arm, as if he’d just touched metal after walking through a storm. He glances out the window into the rain — it’s hard to tell in the night, but thunder has been rolling overhead for days. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was unlucky enough to be caught miles from camp just as lightning starts.

“Wow. Sparks flying, huh?” Hawke says as he finally drops both Fenris’s and Nebel’s arms and shakes off his hands. “Now that’s chemistry right there.”

Fenris rubs at his palm and scowls. “Must you always do that?”

Nebel thinks it’s rather unfair that he directs the question at him. He’s not the one trying to raise a fuss for laughs.

“So what is it you want?” Fenris asks. “I would remind you to consider your own role in Solas’s scheme before you attempt to scold me.”

“That’s not why I’m here.” Nebel gestures to the table between the beds. “I was just dropping off some potions for Hawke.”

Fenris stares down his nose like Nebel is a street peddler trying to pass off iron as silverite, then picks up one of the vials and examines it under the oil lamp. Nebel can’t even imagine what paranoid reasons Fenris has fabricated for why Nebel would want to poison the Champion of Kirkwall.

“It’s the good stuff,” Hawke says, waggling his brows.

Fenris sets down the vial and says only, “hm,” which Nebel interprets as: _thank you, this does not seem like an attempt to poison my lover/husband/codependent friend/whatever we are._

Nebel sneaks his pipe from under the pillow to his pocket. “I’ll just be going — “

Fenris interrupts. “Why are you not still angry with us?”

Nebel takes what feels like the slowest blink of his life. He’s generally of the opinion that Fenris is a good person — misguided, but still good. Hot, but way too crazy — but he is _exhausting._

“Bull figured it out,” Nebel says after a yawn. Confusion washes over Fenris’s face, predictably followed by anger. “It wasn’t only for your tattoos, was it?”

_I had my reasons_. Fenris may not even be aware of that glance he’d thrown Hawke as he’d muttered those words. Those two pieces had been all Bull needed to finish the puzzle of Fenris’s betrayal.

Fenris’s deal with Solas had been dumb, reckless, and impossibly selfish. But Nebel gets it, kind of. No matter how full of hate Fenris may be, he’s still just a man scared to death in the face of the apocalypse. And as much as Fenris may claim to despise him, he did still come find him in that cave.

“What’s he talking about?” Hawke asks.

Fenris folds his arms and looks to the water-stained rafters. “I’ll explain later.”

“Guess we’ve all got secrets, huh?” Nebel grins, and if the wink he throws Hawke gives away why there’s still ribbons of smoke curling around those rafters — well, that’s not his problem. He stands and stretches his arm over his head until the colors of the duvet stop blending with the wood of the walls. “Alright. Maybe I’ll see you both again someday.” He’d like to; he can admit that now, reasoning that he can pass it off as a stoned thought later. It’s a shame they hate him, but if drugs and potions can’t win them over, there’s not much else he can offer.

“Nice seeing you, Inquisitor,” Hawke says.

“Let me know how things go, yeah? I’ll write if I come across anything helpful.”

“Thank you,” Fenris says, and Nebel is half-sure he’s mistaken the sound of his bag settling over his shoulder for an actually kind word. From _Fenris_. Fenris rolls his eyes at Nebel’s disbelief. “For helping get Hawke out of the fire,” he says, a pointed narrowing of scope.

Nebel still smiles. “Thanks for helping find me.” And because he’s got a habit of pushing his luck at the worst of times: he holds out his hand, and he waits.

Fenris stares down at it like it may bite. Nebel won’t be offended if he refuses. Handshakes don’t mean anything to the Dalish anyways; it’s a habit he picked up only because the humans seem to put so much weight into them, and this seems like one of those occasions where they’d clasp hands to symbolize the ending of some shared venture. Nothing says _nice work we did there_ like some shared hand sweat. And just as Nebel decides he’s tired of looking like a begging fool, Fenris takes his hand with a tight grip.

But before they can bounce it twice in the way Josephine taught him was proper, Fenris yanks his own hand back and hisses. “ _Fasta vass._ ” Hawke jumps to his feet as Fenris clutches his fist to his chest.

Nebel takes a second to realize his own hand is tingling, as if Fenris had passed him some static. He turns over his numbing palm and is thankful there’s nothing there. He may have had a heart attack if he’d seen green. “That’s … huh. Weird.”

“You shocked me again,” Fenris accuses.

“Well, I didn’t mean to.”

Hawke leans over to curiously look at Nebel’s hand. Nebel lets him — it’s not like there’s a mark there to gawk at anymore. Hawke turns to Fenris, who refuses to separate his own hand from his chest. Hawke frowns, but doesn’t push. “Has this happened before?”

“No,” Fenris says, then he frowns even deeper. “Actually — perhaps. When I tried to throw you off me. I believed it was Merrill’s spell, but she said it was the wrong element.”

_Throw him off_. Nebel remembers that situation more as Fenris lunging at him out of nowhere after Nebel had stopped him from killing Bull, but there’s no point arguing that now. Nebel does remember, though, feeling both lightning and ice as Merrill had incapacitated each and every one of them.

He thinks of the other times he’s been near Fenris, and remembers sitting beside him on the cliff, sharing a surprisingly friendly moment. “That time with the bottle, I thought — “

Well. He’d thought he was sex-starved and feeling some chemistry between them. _Whoops_.

“You used to be a doorway to the Fade,” Fenris says. “I suppose this could be a reaction to that.”

“But the Anchor is gone,” Nebel says, scowling at the obtuse misrepresentation of the mark. Fenris is far from the first person to think something similar — he’d noticed it in the physical distance people put between him and themselves, even within the gates of Skyhold.

Hawke stares at the ground with blown-out pupils. This is probably pretty bizarre to his elfroot-addled brain. Nebel would be feeling the same, but nothing is more sobering than his arm trying to electrify him.

“Wait,” Hawke says, squeezing his chin with one hand and flapping the other between Fenris and Nebel. “Do it again.”

“Must we?” Fenris says under his breath.

Nebel shares Fenris’s hesitation; he doesn’t understand what’s causing this reaction, and if his experience with the Anchor has taught him anything, it’s that what starts as a tiny discomfort is never guaranteed to stay that way.

“Come on, you two,” Hawke says. “Just shake hands.”

Nebel gives in before Fenris. Fine. Worst case scenario, there are some very good healing potions within reach. After another minute, Fenris seems to have fulfilled his prerequisite amount of scowling to make his displeasure adequately known. He takes Nebel’s outstretched hand.

It happens again, and this time Nebel pays real attention to the sensation. Despite what he’d thought, it’s not like the shock of touching metal in strange weather at all. Instead of Fenris’s hand jolting him, he feels the charge start somewhere in his chest and seem to travel down his arm, leaving his fingers tingling with numbness when it reaches them. The shock only lasts a fraction of a second before Fenris flinches and pulls away.

“Ow,” Nebel says, shaking out his hand and hoping feeling returns to it soon. “What’s going on?”

Hawke stands between the bed, tapping his feet and his fingers and even his jaw — a strange _tip tip tap_ that blends seamlessly with the patter of rain. Nebel tries to think of any ideas other than the lightning from outside somehow being attracted to the combination of their energies.

“This only happens with Fen?” Hawke asks, suddenly turning to Nebel.

“Yeah.”

Hawke spins around to Fenris. “And you woulda told me if other people were shocking you, right?”

“Correct.”

And back to Nebel. It’s a wonder Hawke hasn’t collapsed from dizziness. Suddenly, he bends in close, only inches from Nebel’s face, and waves his hand in front of his eyes. “Hello, mind-elves? Are you the ones doing this?”

Nebel jerks away and balks. “You … what? You think this is the well’s doing?”

“Maybe. I mean, why else would you be the only one this happens to? _I’m_ fine when we touch. And it’s not like you’re a mage or anything — as far as I know.”

Nebel’s fingers begin to feel warm again as he flexes and un-flexes them. Hawke is right: with the Anchor gone, there’s nothing physically unique about him other than the vir’abelasan. But that still doesn’t explain why there’d be any reaction to the lyrium in Fenris. “Why would ... I don’t see why that would cause this.”

“You said you had trouble talking to them, yeah? But you _were_ trying to ask them about Fen. Maybe … maybe one of them is trying to tell you something.” Hawke presses his palms together in a pillar under his chin. “What if this is how they’re talking instead?”

Fenris’s face has soured to the point where it looks like he’s eaten sour fruit jerky — which sounds _astoundingly_ good right now. Oh, the elfroot is really kicking in. Nebel almost regrets giving Merrill the candy Marelwyn had made.

Fenris scowls at the window. “You both are talking crazy.”

“No, no, hear me out,” Hawke says. “I’ve thought about this a lot. I mean, _a lot._ The best way to fix the lyrium is to refine it, right?”

“Hawke,” Fenris warns.

“Qunari and dwarves both have plenty of access to lightning.”

Fenris’s brows furrow together at Hawke’s words. Then, his arms unfold. He still frowns, but he stops looking like he’s on the verge of smothering both of them with a pillow. He side-eyes Nebel. ” _Is_ that a possibility?”

Nebel stares down at his palm. It shouldn’t be. The vir’abelasan is a source of knowledge, not physical power. How would it possibly be easier to send electricity through him than to simply speak with him? He shuts his eyes and tries to tune out the breaths of the other men and the sounds of the rain on the floorboards, waiting for anything beyond his own thoughts.

_Please, listen t —_

The voice cuts off, like a sound muffled by a hand over a mouth.

Nebel whispers, “Maybe.”

“Okay, again,” Hawke says.

Fenris recoils. “Why?”

“I wanna see what happens.” Hawke shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe if you two keep holding hands … maybe that’s all we gotta do.”

Nebel doubts the rogue actions of one of the beings in his head could possibly cure Fenris on their own, but he’ll entertain the idea.

“This had better be the last time,” Fenris says as he grabs Nebel’s hand again. Within seconds, Fenris’s fingers have tightened with an unbridled strength, enough that it feels like the bones of Nebel’s knuckles are shifting out of place. It hurts, but the pulsing in his chest is far worse: it’s similar to the feeling of closing a rift in how it rattles his teeth and sends spasms through the muscles of his arm. But when it came to the Anchor, he always felt like he was struggling to control a power much greater than himself. This feels like he’s being drained of a power he doesn’t have.

He feels the sudden, overwhelming urge to fall asleep.

“Fuck,” Nebel says as he jerks his hand back. The blackness fades from his vision, but his body still feels like it’s emerging from a fog. He rubs his eyes and tries to hide the slur from his words. In hindsight, attempting this while high may not have been the best idea. “Sorry. I can’t keep going. I’m not a mage, I don’t know where they’re pulling this from.”

“That time was … rather unpleasant,” Fenris says with a controlled tone as he curls and stretches his fingers in a disjointed, excruciatingly slow cycle. It looks as if his knuckles have been locked in place, and the effort to free them is making his breath shallow and his jaw tight.

“You alright, Fen?” Hawke asks, taking Fenris’s hand in his own and massaging his palm with his thumb.

“I am fine,” Fenris mutters, though he doesn’t take his hand back.

Hawke turns to Nebel and scratches at his beard. “Hmm. Not enough juice in you, I guess.” He raises a finger in the air. “Think some lyrium would help?”

“Hawke,” Fenris warns yet again.

Nebel cringes, while Hawke raises his hands in resignation and goes quiet. A suffocating, sullen atmosphere falls over the room. Nebel hates it. He came here to offer help, not false hope. “There has to be some way to use this,” he says. “There must be. Do either of you have any ideas?”

“I don’t,” Hawke says. “But I’m betting Merrill would.”


	18. Chapter 18

“Can you — one more time, here, please?”

Merrill points to Lavellan’s shoulder. With a roll of his eyes, Fenris rests a single finger on it. A shock reverberates through his arm just the same as it has the last hundred times. Lavellan mumbles something incoherent as his eyes shift around under their lids, but he doesn’t raise his head from the pillow.

“Are you finished?” Fenris asks.

“I will tell you when I am,” Merrill says, quill dragging over the pile of notes in her lap. She sits with her legs crossed on the tail end of the bed while Fenris lean back against the headboard, letting his head bang against the wall. It’s too cramped. This bed wasn’t meant for three people, even if was made for humans.

They’d split up, after Hawke’s discovery — Hawke to find a few lyrium potions, Lavellan to find Merrill, and Fenris to find a way to hide any sudden lightning bolts from drawing attention through the windows. After a single demonstration, Merrill had been enthralled. She’d nearly knocked over the lantern on the bedside table as she’d scrambled to find a notebook and begin recording every detail. Unfortunately, she’d also made the two of them shake hands until Fenris lost feeling in his fingers and Lavellan drifted off to sleep. And then she’d made them continue.

“Does that feel any different?”

“No,” Fenris answers truthfully.

Merrill scribbles down another note in her unreadable handwriting. It must be code. There’s no way that those curves are words.

“Okay. I think we should be fine to let him go now.” Merrill glances to Lavellan, whose mouth has fallen open, a thin line of spit trailing down his chin. The corners of her lips curve up into a tiny, impish grin. “Do you want to draw on his face with me first?”

“No,” Fenris says. Merrill’s smile fades. Fenris can’t see how there’d even be room with all that ink already on his face.

“Hawke?” Merrill calls. Hawke peeks his head in from the bathroom. “Do you mind — ” She points at Lavellan, and Hawke covers a laugh as he walks over. He stoops and throws Lavellan’s arm over his shoulders, then drags him off the bed and to his feet. Lavellan looks like a discount sack of grain that Hawke has lugged home from the market.

Lavellan groggily opens his eyes and mutters, “Bull?”

Hawke snorts. “Do I look purple?” He jostles his right shoulder, startling Lavellan out of his stupor. “Come on. You’ve got two legs still, use ‘em.”

The door is shut and latched, and then there’s only the rain to ward off the tense silence between them. Merrill turns over Fenris’s palm. Her eyes trace his veins like they’re letters on a page.

“You don’t need to do this,” he says. “I’m not going to let you try anything on me.”

Merrill drops his hands. She turns to the window, covered by one of the room’s repurposed tapestries. The red cloth is embroidered with the sun of the Chantry, its puckering golden threads stained bronze by the rain. She rests her hands in her lap. “What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid. I just know how you mages are.”

“So.” Merrill runs her tongue over her chapped lips. “You’re afraid I’m going to control you again?”

“ _Not_ afraid,” he says again. “Whether that’s what you intend or not, there are always prices to pay for magic of this nature. I lost my memory the first time around. And _those_ mages had practiced for years. Who’s to say I don’t lose even more this time?”

Merrill’s gaze returns to him, her head cocked. “I think they got the result they practiced for,” she whispers. “Fenris. I will not hurt you.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

Fenris’s chest tightens at the thought of putting himself at the mercy of a mage — trusting both her intentions, her abilities, and the cruel fates of the world to not turn against him. A different man might call this _fear_. Fenris looks away and waits for the feeling to pass.

“What do you even gain from this?” he asks. “We never liked each other. You only tolerate me because of Hawke. If you’re only trying to save me because of him, you can just say that.”

“I’m not doing this for Hawke.”

Fenris scoffs. “And why would you want to help me?”

Like a glass shattered, Merrill breaks.

“Because we’re all we have left!”

Her outburst sends Fenris’s head knocking back against the bedposts. Merrill drives her palms deep into her eyes, and he finds his fists digging into the sheets as she folds in on herself like the slowly crumpling edges of burning paper.

“My clan doesn’t want me — neither of them, the Alerion made that all too clear yesterday — Hawke’s whole family is gone, and you — “ She lets out a frustrated, muffled shout, then drops her voice back to a hush. “Forgive me for wanting to protect the few people still here.”

Fenris tries to slow his heart back down. No matter how her back shakes, it’s not his job to comfort her. Fenris looks to the door, praying for the clatter of a doorknob turning. No such luck.

He’d forgotten: this isn’t Merrill’s first Arlathvhen. Thirty years ago to this very week she’d been brought here — at an age Fenris doesn’t even have memories of ever being — and traded away to a group of strangers. As if three mages is safe and four is an invitation to demons. It sounds like her birth family holds no regrets about that choice; in fact, they’re probably feeling like they dodged a catastrophe there.

He finds himself watching the tapestry billowing in the wind and counting the number of times its wooden spindles rattle against the wall. Over plush red cloth, its fraying threads hang like a golden chandelier — swinging, spinning, twisting.

“Do you know what I saw when you controlled me?” he asks.

She sniffs, wiping her nose on her finger. “No.”

“My sister.”

Merrill’s breath catches on the inhale. She stills. With her hands flipped and her knuckles hooked together, her fingers look like the pistils of a pale lily.

She’d been there too, throwing spells at Danarius from her perch on their usual table of the Hanged Man. Hawke had insisted they bring a mage, and it was better her than Anders. She’d heard every word of how Fenris had ended up with these markings. His last shameful secret from a life he doesn’t even remember.

“I shouldn’t’ve done that to you.” She exhales. “I’m sorry.”

Without Hawke here, Fenris had expected a fight. More harsh words about his unfounded distrust in magic. Something about having no choice, yet again. He wonders what she expects from him.

It doesn’t matter if he would have died without her help. She knows his background; she should have known he’d rather a knife in the heart than to ever be used as a puppet.

Merrill begins to chew the inside of her cheek — a habit he knows she picked up from Hawke at some point. There must be some oddities in Hawke that come from Merrill as well. They’re alike in so many ways, so much more so than he and Fenris. But Fenris watches her cheek shift and swell — a movement he’s used to seeing on dimpled, bearded skin — and realization hits him like he’s been pushed into the depths of an ice-cold bath. He can’t berate her for what she’s done to him, not when he’s already done the same to Hawke.

The entire reason he’s kept quiet about his deal with Solas is because he knows that Hawke would swear he’d rather die than go off into some elven paradise without Fenris. Fenris was there to watch Hawke live alone and wealthy and resentful of every second of that loneliness, and yet — Fenris would still rather Hawke live and hate him than die along with him.

Fenris had been wrong: he’s far more of a hypocrite than Anders ever was.

Fenris sighs, sparing the window one last glance. He’d rather be out there, the rain cool on his face, the ground wet under his feet, free from the suffocating heat of this room.

“I am, as well,” he says. He keeps his eyes on his knuckles as he massages feeling back into them. “It’s not your fault the Qunari came for you. I’ve been a wanted good before too.”

“It’s alright,” she says, but it’s not, not really.

His odds of survival are slim, no matter her confidence. They’re still likely better than the odds he’d had in surviving the ritual that gave him these markings in the first place.

“This — whatever _this_ is. Can you do it without blood magic?” he asks.

“Maybe with enough time. But I don’t know how much of that we have.”

There’s a question in her eyes as she raises them to meet his. _She knows._ He curses whatever gave it away. Was it his hands struggling to pour tea? The way his ears twitch even in silence? Or has it been the glances he can’t help throwing to these lyrium potions?

“Don’t tell Hawke,” he says.

“How long does he think you have?”

“Years.”

“Fenris,” she breathes. “It’s months. You know that, yes?”

“I do.”

“I won’t lie to him if he asks me,” she warns.

Fenris shrugs. “He’ll find out soon enough.”

For a moment, Merrill looks overcome with sorrow. She too must worry over how Hawke will cope, losing one of the last few people left in his life. He’s grateful that her expression shifts into a sad smile without him needing to say anything. “Well,” she says, wiping at the corners of her eyes with her palm, “if we do this soon, I suppose it won’t matter.”

“If we do this at all.”

She shuts her notebook with a sigh. Her fingers run down the edges of parchment as she whispers, “Am I really less trustworthy than Solas?”

_No,_ he thinks. _But that isn’t saying much._

She seems to hear his unsaid words as a downcast look falls over her face. “It’s your choice, Fenris. But I hate to watch a friend go through this.”

“Hawke will be alright,” he mutters, and somehow this makes her frown worse.

“Okay. I have what I need,” she says, sliding the notebook into her bag between a mirror and a wooden block that he remembers her once using to press flowers. Her fingers pause at the bottom of the pack. “I think I’ve got an idea that may very well work. I’ll just wake you if something else comes up, alright?”

“Please don’t.”

She smiles at his grumbling. Then, from the depths of her bag she draws out an object that Fenris can’t even begin to guess the origins of — something no bigger than the palm of her hand and wrapped in some sort of flimsy parchment. Oddly, it smells of wine. She tears the parchment and whatever’s in it in two, returning one half behind the mirror and setting the other on the table beside the bed.

She waves with a soft and tired smile. “Sleep well, alright? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

After she’s left, he unfolds the parchment to find a strip of something orange that looks like a translucent sort of meat jerky, though it’s almost certainly made of fruit. It’s unlike any confection Fenris has seen before. Sugar crystal coats its cloudy surface, and the smell is tart enough to make his eyes and mouth water.

When Hawke returns that evening, hair sticking to his forehead and rain dripping from his shoes, he laughs at the sweet taste lingering on Fenris’s teeth.

* * *

A mug lands on the table with a thud. Fenris looks up to see Hawke grinning from ear to ear, holding a matching one of his own high in the air.

“I don’t feel like drinking,” Fenris says.

Hawke’s mouth drops open. “But this is the finest liquor in all of Orlais!”

Fenris sighs. Heat radiates from the mug’s handle as he presses it to his lips. A taste won’t hurt. Hawke can finish off what remains. He takes a sip, throat ready for that pleasant burn, and tastes — earth. Ginger. The only burning comes from the fact that this tea must have been brewed only minutes ago.

The tavern on the first floor of the inn reminds Fenris of the Hanged Man, except that this place looks like they actually wipe down the bartop more than once a month. And from the well-armored company around the other tables, the templars of _this_ city don’t seem to fear setting foot on these lowlife floorboards.

Hawke holds up his cup and waits. Fenris raises a brow. They have nothing to toast. But Hawke sloshes it around anyway, grinning even as hot tea splashes onto his wrist, and Fenris taps his own mug against Hawke’s just to get him to put it down. But Hawke doesn’t. No, Hawke throws back his head and chugs the scalding liquid as if it’s ale, then ends up with his bright red tongue stuck out pain.

Fenris takes a much-needed sip.

They’d woken to Merrill with one leg already through their window, saying she hadn’t wanted to disturb them by knocking — _Creators knows all of us could use more sleep_ , she’d said. She hadn’t felt comfortable waiting in the tavern — _Templars give me the shivers —_ and so she wanted to be polite, but she hadn’t realized how poorly oiled these windows were — _sorry, sorry! Go back to sleep you two, I’ll just wait here._ Ever the kind host, Hawke had offered her a hand down from the windowsill and invited her to sit on the other bed. Fenris had no choice but to get up at that point.

That had been around noon; Fenris hadn’t realized how much the lack of sleep had caught up with them all. He’d narrowly avoided drifting back off as Merrill had kept them as her captive audience for hours with an array of lyrium potions and an endless stream of words. There was no hustling her along to a point. She’d explained every digression and experiment she’d tried, bringing them along as passengers through her winding path to a conclusion. Fenris had understood more of what she’d been saying. Hawke had listened to more of it.

Even lyrium as refined as a potion supposedly still had active cells in it — _the little living bits that make it dangerous_ — and these cells had a tendency to clump together — _like schools of fish! Sort of —_ and those were the parts they needed to kill.

She’d meant _kill_ quite literally. As it had turned out, the lightning passing between him and Lavellan had been chain lightning, a spell Hawke and Fenris were both intimately familiar with. Mages always seem to get some sick pleasure out of shocking two sword-wielders in one attack. And it seemed the only successful way she could further refine a potion was to create a chain, tying together each cell one by one until she’d created a full circle.

At that point in her explanation, she’d uncorked one of the lyrium potions with her teeth, and Fenris found he couldn’t tear his attention away. The second she’d spread her fingers, the lyrium’s usual gentle hum had changed into the grating squeal of one of those Tevinter stringed instruments being played with an un-rosined bow, though neither Hawke nor Merrill had shown any signs of distress. Then Merrill had relaxed her hand, and in a sudden burst of light that Fenris had seen just as much as he’d felt within his own skin, the lyrium had erupted out of the neck of the vial, leaving liquid to drip off the edge of the table, in perfectly round drops.

_Do you see?_ She’d asked. _It’s fighting back. It doesn’t want to die._

She’d cleaned up the lyrium with a snap of her fingers, thankfully, and dived into a further lecture. The gist of it, as Fenris had summed up for Hawke later: an incomplete chain meant the surviving cells would revive the others, no matter how few remained. The energy of such a reaction would lead to a combustion. The shorter the faulty chain, the smaller the explosion — _that’s why it hurt more, the longer you two held hands! —_ and, therefore, all of it needed to be killed off at once. Fenris wonders how many vials Merrill had broken in the night and if she’d eventually switched to a thicker glass.

_So I may explode, if this goes poorly._

_There is a chance, yes. But it’s a small one! I do have experience with this type of magic,_ she’d said. _My lantern uses a similar mechanism, so I’ve done something like this before. Sort of._

Unlike being hit with one large bolt, a series of minuscule bursts of lightning through his veins would supposedly not fry Fenris alive. Merrill had dodged the question of how sure she was about that with a wave and another demonstration. And then her chin had tilted down, the only time in hours that her voice had lost its gusto.

_I do wish I’d realized this was why my eluvian was going dull each night, even after I’d come up with that lyrium glaze. Never guessed it could be my lantern. Oh well._

“Do you want me to do it?” Fenris asks.

Hawke sighs. “You know I’d trust Merrill with my life, but — “

“Would you trust her with mine?”

Hawke frowns as he runs his finger in circles around the lip of his mug. “It’s just too soon,” he eventually says. “We all need to catch our breaths, you know? Merrill can study it some more, and that woman she’s taking with her — Shielan, right? I’m glad she’s got a new friend to travel with — she might be able to help her out.”

“That’s true.”

Hawke flicks a drop of tea towards Fenris, a grin returning to his face as the liquid soaks into unfinished wood. “I mean, you’ve been handling it okay so far, what’s another few months?”

Hawke takes Fenris’s forearm and gives it a gentle shake, and Fenris fights the urge to yank his arm away. Hawke doesn’t know how close he’d come to having a knife in his back only days ago, all because he’d woken Fenris at the wrong time. Hawke doesn’t know that the reason Fenris isn’t drinking his tea is because his hands won’t stay still.

He needs to tell him. They don’t have years. They’d be lucky to have months. But if Hawke knows that, he’s not going to accept anything other than what he would surely see as the least risky option: Fenris returning to Solas, ingratiating himself to a man who’s shown he has no qualms of using him as a weapon.

Fenris can’t very well pace around the room without attracting attention, so he lets his eyes do the legwork for him. They land on one of the templars sitting in the center of the room. While the others imbibe themselves, this one has his head buried in a leather-bound notebook, only looking up when one of the others splashes a drop of ale across the parchment. Fenris’s throat goes dry. It’s the ale he’s craving. It has nothing to do with the blue glow peaking out of one of their pockets.

“Are you alright? You seem down.”

“I am fine. Sorry,” Fenris says. “I have a headache. I’m going to return to our room for the night.”

“Oh. Alright. See you soon, okay?”

“Goodnight, Hawke.”

Fenris climbs the creaking staircase, fingers running over the cold teeth of his room key until he’s accidentally scratched through his thumb, all while the laughter and hollow gurgles of poured ale blend together into a sound indistinguishable from the wind.

* * *

“Don’t touch me.”

The man lifts his hand from Fenris’s side. He’s confused. Of course he is. This can’t be what he expected when he crawled into bed with a sleeping slave.

“Oh, ‘m sorry,” the man mutters, shifting his head in a farce like he intends to fall asleep on the pillow. “Get some more sleep, okay?”

How _sick_. This vile bastard doesn’t appear to be from Tevinter; the amount of hair curling out of his shirt points to Ferelden heritage. His hands are too calloused to be those of a mage.

“Love you, Fen,” the man whispers as he slips his eyes shut. _Disgusting._

Fenris has had enough of this for one lifetime. He rolls over to straddle the man, pinning him to the bed. A white glow illuminates the dark room as Fenris takes one last breath, before —

“Whoa, what are you — “

He plunges his hand into the man’s chest.

The man stops breathing. He’s fully awake now, staring at Fenris with eyes gone so wide that there’s more white than black in them.

“Don’t move,” Fenris demands. For some reason, Fenris doesn’t either. He hadn’t meant to prolong this kill, but some strange instinct has him holding off on creating the bloody mess he knows this will end with.

“I’m not. I’m not. I won’t.” The man’s chin dips a touch, enough to signal a nod. “Just — let’s both agree not to move, alright? Let’s both hold _completely_ still.”

There’s no turning back now. If Danarius finds out what he’s done to one of his friends, Fenris will be beaten bloody and healed again and again until the pain has him begging for death. Killing this man and making a run for it is a safer bet. Perhaps if he’s caught then, he’ll actually be granted that mercy.

Fenris asks, “Where am I?”

“You’re in Montsimmard. At the inn. You’re with me,” the man says.

“And who are you?”

The man looks confused. “I’m — I’m Hawke, Fen. I’m your — we’re — you don’t remember?”

“How much did you pay Danarius to rape me?”

For some reason, the man freezes. He must not have expected to ever be confronted for his sins.

“Oh, Maker’s breath. Oh. I’m going to vomit.” From the strange shifting Fenris feels against his wrist, _that_ statement at least appears to be true. “Fenris, I’m not, please — it’s me, it’s Hawke, you’re free, you’re in Ferelden — “

“Give me one reason to believe you.”

“I’m so sorry, I’m — I didn’t realize. I didn’t know how bad things were.” Tears well up in the man’s eyes as his breathing slows. “I shouldn’t have talked you out of it. Please, please forgive me. I just wanted to be certain. I was afraid, but — oh, Fen, you must be so much more scared than me.”

The man reaches up with a quivering hand to caress Fenris’s cheek. Fenris slaps it away, even as something in him chills at the touch. This scumbag is speaking nonsense; his brain must be addled from spending too long at the pipe. The same drugs are likely in Fenris’s own system, in much higher quantities — this wouldn’t be the first time he’s been pumped full of them and come to his senses days or weeks later in some far-off, unfamiliar place. He hopes they don’t dull the man’s pain at all as he dies.

“Stop talking,” Fenris says. He scans the room for hints of where he really is and what he should expect waiting for him outside the door. He can keep the man alive for another moment, if just to get more answers. There’s two beds. Lyrium potions on table between them — this man might not be a mage, but he’s certainly in the company of them.

“Wait. Wait, Fen, look — “ The man makes the poor decision to grab Fenris’s elbow, and as soon as calloused fingers meet his skin, the room flashes white.

“I said _don’t touch me_ ,” Fenris snarls, the tattoos across his body pulsing with light and heat that makes his heart beat too fast and his forehead drip sweat. He needs to get out of here, now. But the man holds tight, and despite Fenris’s other hand being plunged through his chest and possibly scalding his flesh, he refuses to let go.

“Your wrist!” The man cries, throwing back his head as he turns Fenris’s arm so the inner veins of his wrist face the ceiling. Fenris looks. A word is written in dried paint that cracks into red flakes over the ridges of his tendons, and he wonders why he’d be marked with the name of a city on the Waking Sea.

He reads the word.

The spasms of the man’s crying lungs brush against his knuckles.

Fenris’s eyes study each letter, from the curling _K_ to the final _L_ that trails off in crooked, smudged paint. He knows every single one.

It’s not possible.

He looks down and there’s Hawke, already breathing shallow and trying to stop even that, fighting the tears that trail down his pale face. He has the familiar face of someone who knows they’re within inches of death, but Fenris feels his heart beating against his palm and knows the distance is no more than the width of a thread.

And against all odds, Hawke is smiling.

“Fen?” he whispers, his lips curling even higher.

“No. No, no, no — “

Fenris pulls his hand out as slow as he can, and it’s trembling — he can’t stop it, it won’t stop shaking — and with every movement he feels muscles and flesh and he prays with every fiber of his being that he leaves this man unbroken.

Hawke breathes a heavy, relieved sigh as the tips of Fenris’s translucent fingers emerge. He laughs, somehow, but even his bellowing, glorious cheer can’t cover the two sobs that escape between his breaths.

Fenris wants to says _I’m sorry_ or _hold still_ or _forgive me,_ but he can’t speak. There’s no air in this room. He sees nothing but red as he grabs his sword and runs for the door.

“Fenris, wait!”

He can’t. He’s waited far too long already.

* * *

Fenris only stops once he falls. He stays on the ground, clutching his knee to his chest and searching for the stupid rock that tripped him. When he finds it, he throws it as far as he can. It bounces off a tree and lands in the fresh mud from the rain that’s unfortunately stopped. He tastes blood on his lips. He deserves far worse than that.

If this were Kirkwall, he never would have fallen. There, he’d scaled rooftops and trellises with all the grace Danarius had built into him. But here he is, lying on his back in the dirt, all because he couldn’t stop a twitch in his calf and a spot of black in his vision.

If this were Kirkwall, Hawke would insist on taking him to Anders’s clinic, despite Fenris’s protests. Anders would call him a rash idiot while he healed every scrape, and then they’d go to the Hanged Man, where Isabela would buy him a drink and Merrill would put him to sleep with her theories on how next to repair her mirror.

It had been nice while it lasted.

A gray hand enters Fenris’s vision. When he looks up, he finds himself surprised that it isn’t Anders’s corpse-like ghost waiting for him. The hand waits, an outstretched offer of kindness that Fenris bats away.

“What are you doing here?” he asks as he sits up. He doesn’t bother to brush the dirt from his back. There’s no point.

“Needed some supplies. Been cooking a lot. Safer for me to come to town than an elf with all those tattoos, you know?” Fenris forces himself to stand. Iron Bull stares at his bloodied knee. “You look … rough.”

“I don’t wish to discuss it with you.”

“Alright,” Iron Bull says. “Anyways. I heard you had an idea on how to get rid of _your_ tats.”

“Yes. Why do you care?”

“Well, Nebel came back looking like he’d been through his rookie week on Seheron. Said you’d found a cure and then fell asleep for fourteen hours.”

Fourteen hours. Iron Bull shows no sign of that being an exaggeration. Fenris had thought Hawke was being overly vigilant when he’d walked Lavellan back to his camp, but turns out that had been yet another case of Hawke being kinder than Fenris could ever be. “He’ll be fine,” Fenris mutters.

“Oh, yeah, I know. The guy is un-killable. Like a sexy cockroach.” Iron Bull laughs at Fenris’s disgust. “So, are you gonna do it then?”

Will he? Can he go back and face Hawke, knowing everything he hid, and still ask for his help? Would Merrill be willing, knowing she may be impaled in the middle of her spell? He’d be lucky if Hawke was willing to even look him in the eye again.

And is there a point to this, if he doesn’t have Hawke?

“I don’t know,” Fenris says. “There’s no reversing the damage they’ve done.”

“Eh. I’m not so sure about that. But at least you won’t be able to reach inside people anymore. I’ve gotta say, it’s not my favorite way I’ve had a hand in me.” Iron Bull pulls a flask from one of his absurdly deep pockets and takes a long swig before holding it out to Fenris. “Want some?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, taking another.

Fenris listens to the _glug_ of Iron Bull swallowing liquor. The clouds have parted enough to reveal a full sky of stars, each of them watching him like a sea of eyes. He can’t help but think of the nights he’d sit alone on the top of his manor, sipping wine as he’d breathed in the salt of Kirkwall’s shores. And then those later, better nights when Hawke would join him, pointing out Ferelden myths in whatever stars they could find.

Iron Bull lets out an _ah_ at the end of a swig, and Fenris finds himself asking, “How did you convince Lavellan to forgive you?”

Iron Bull goes still for only a second before he starts scratching at his chin. “Oh, boy. Don’t think he has, really. Hard to tell with him sometimes. Mostly I’m trying to be honest, for once.”

“I’m surprised you can manage that.”

“I know, right?” Iron Bull chuckles, then raises the flask to his lips and takes a drink that surely empties it.

Fenris has a hundred ideas of names to call Iron Bull. Liar. Hypocrite. Asshole. The urge to pick a fight feels like a fever — his skin too cold and too hot, all at the same time. He doesn’t care if it’s swords, fists, knives, or words. All he wants is to get rid of this energy and feel the same pain that Hawke must still be reeling from.

But he can’t help but wonder what has Iron Bull out here in the first place, drinking alone in the dark. And Fenris remembers his own mess of feelings when he’d joined Lavellan on the cliff, offering to share a drink with a man he’d normally want to punch in the face. He hadn’t wanted a fight. He’d just wanted to be in the company of someone who — well, the company of anyone, really.

Fenris wants pain. That desire isn’t worth inflicting hurt on anyone else, even if that person is the Iron Bull.

He spends a minute looking for a conversation topic, and then gives up. Bringing up the main thing they have in common is likely to end with both of them depressed over the memories of humidity and death.

So after a few minutes, Fenris says, “If you see Hawke, do not tell him I’m here,” and lets that serve as a goodbye.

“Sure, yeah.” Iron Bull cracks his neck as he tucks the empty flash back into his pocket. “Hey. The two of us want to help, alright? All you gotta do is ask.”

“Hm.”

“Alright. Have a good night.”

Iron Bull leaves. In the city, a lantern comes to life while another is snuffed. Two women climb atop a rooftop and sit together in the shadow. A group of fresh adults gather behind a building and throw cards and coins down between them. Any reasonable person would be falling asleep by now, but few of the people Fenris associates with could ever be called _reasonable_. Fenris doesn’t need to find a place to rest — he needs to figure out a direction to run. But when he tries to pick one, he finds himself staying exactly where he is, unable to tear his gaze from the city he knows Hawke is within.

A life of solitude is what he deserves, at the minimum. Death makes a strong case as well. The fact that he wants neither is just more proof that he’s a person unfit for society. His existence is a liability; and yet he watches these people, mingling long past when they should be sleeping, and he can’t stop wanting to keep the life he’s found.

And what does Hawke deserve?

An honest partner. A kind person. Someone who can reflect back all the warmth Hawke has to give without lying or hiding or putting his life in any more danger than his usual amount. Someone who doesn’t make Hawke search desperately through the woods while his back blisters from burns. Someone who will fight for him, with him, next to him, with as much vigor as Hawke has fought for everything in his life.

One of the women on the rooftop points one hand to the stars and throws the other around her companion, pulling her head to her shoulder. Fenris looks to the ground and knows what he needs to do.

* * *

“Fenris?”

Hawke comes through the door, out of breath and shirt damp with sweat. Fenris has been tensed and ready for what feels like hours, so he’s up and in the entryway in seconds. He keeps two arm’s lengths between them; there’s no telling if Hawke will take a well-deserved swing at him.

And though Hawke looks as if he’s seen the spirit of a long-dead friend, he’s still the one to close the distance between them. “You came back,” he breathes, running the backs of two fingers down Fenris’s cheek with the slow, light touch of someone uncertain that anything’s truly in front of them.

When the reverent fingers reach his chin, Fenris says, “I’m sorry. There’s no forgiving what I did.”

“Don’t. I’m fine. You’re the one who — ” Hawke looks to the ceiling, blinking water out of his eyes. “I can’t even say it.”

“It’s no excuse,” Fenris says, and he means it. “I was selfish. I knew how bad it had gotten. I should have told you months ago.” Hawke’s dark eyes return to him, the same color as the ash that had filled Kirkwall’s sky, complete with the specks of gold of the flames as the last of the Chantry had burned. Fenris finds it just as hard to breathe now as he had then. “I wanted more time.”

Hawke read that templar’s letter. He’s not stupid. He knows, now, exactly how long they have left.

“It’s alright, you don’t need to — “

“And somehow, I still do,” Fenris interrupts. He never does, not to Hawke, but this time — he has to. Because when he looks to Hawke, he wants —

He _wants_ , in his heart, in his bones, in every breath that leaves his burning lungs —

“I want a life with you. More than I knew I could ever want something.”

Hawke’s lip quivers, and his fingers dig into Fenris’s arm with the same tremor. Fenris forces himself to keep speaking, despite every instinct screaming that he’ll never be forgiven for this. “And if I may be selfish, one last time — “ Fenris bows his head. “Might I ask for your help giving me that?”

Fenris’s skin burns and his heart pulses in a way that has him sure that his tattoos have ignited, but the room stays lit only by a dim, dying lantern.

Hawke doesn’t look mad. Confusion is the only emotion marring his face. “You mean — “

“No more waiting,” Fenris says. “Let’s finish this.”

Hawke stares, and for a moment, the possibility that Hawke may refuse him settles over Fenris like a freezing mist.

But before he can offer a way out, Hawke throws his arms around him, squeezing him for only a second but with enough strength that Fenris knows he’ll be sore in his shoulders later. And then Hawke pulls away and nods with a decisiveness Fenris hasn’t seen in him since that day he stepped forward to fight the Arishok. Neither of them had been certain then that they’d make it out of there alive, and they can’t be now — but in that firm smile and shining eyes, Hawke has that same willingness to raise his sword and fight even when the odds are stacked against them.

Fenris mirrors it, as best he can, and then tugs Hawke back to him. Hawke laughs as he stumbles forward, and Fenris presses his head to that chest, saying a silent prayer in thanks for every breath and heartbeat.


	19. Chapter 19

There’s a saying amongst the eastern Dalish: _when the road branches, follow the halla_.

The Lavellan version of the legend begins months into the Long Walk, when the few remaining survivors of the journey from Tevinter had found themselves lost in the midst of a mountain pass. Clouds loomed overhead, foretelling a storm. With only rags and scraps remaining, the survivors faced a choice: continue to weave between the hills and brave the merciless risk, or risk the descent into mountain range’s caves. No matter their decision, their odds were slim — but splitting up meant certain death for both sides. An argument broke out.

Then, in the mouth of the cave: a halla. Clean and well-fed, but far from its herd. With only a prayer that the dark tunnels led anywhere other than an abyss, the elves followed it. And three days later — they emerged. Their eyes laid upon the sight of a crystal-clear river surrounded by the reddest apples you could imagine. _See it now, da’len, in the land around us — the same water flows through you; these fruits were gifted from those seeds —_ and there, in the Dales, the first clan made their home. Now, it’s said that if you’re debating whether to change course and a halla appears before you, it’s clear the decision you must make.

So it stings a bit when a halla steps out from behind a tree just as Nebel is considering leaving Bull.

It’s probably frowned upon to give a halla such a dirty look. The creature almost seems to return it, eyelids lowering over round, gray irises.

Huh. Nebel has spent a fair amount of time with a fair amount of halla — they make decent company and don’t have a habit of asking questions — and he’s never seen one before with that shade of eyes. Nor has he seen one with an undercoat so thick before.

“Are you doing this to everyone, Solas?”

The halla’s lips pull back into a long, grim smile that its face should never be capable of. It lifts onto two hooves as its branching horns retract into pale skin. “Only to those who need it,” Solas says, once his mouth has become elvhen. “No matter. I’m glad we’re getting a chance to talk, just you and I. It’s been too long.”

Thankfully, Solas’s clothes manifest before he becomes too recognizable. The last of the fur morphs into the collar of his coat, and then he’s finally back in his normal body. None of this is what Nebel expected when he set off for a morning stroll to clear his head, but he’s not going to give up a chance to prod Solas for answers.

Nebel asks, “So, come to gloat about your progress?”

“There is progress. I have no intention to gloat,” Solas says. “As I have said, this journey brings me no pleasure.”

“Then why not stop it?”

“Do you always quit the things that make you unhappy?”

Nebel expels a hot breath through his nose. A year and an army clearly hasn’t made Solas any less of a prick. “Why are you even still here? I know you can’t really teleport, as much as you like to play pretend. Have you been hanging around this whole time? Or do you have an eluvian hidden somewhere?”

“Perhaps I do. Perhaps it’s the same one that Iron Bull stole.” As always, Solas gives his most barbed comments a moment to burrow in. “In regards to your other question: I’ve learned the important of seeing through my plans to the end. There’s never any telling who will step in at the wrong moment.”

Nebel takes some satisfaction knowing that his nosiness at the Conclave had given Solas so much trouble. It doesn’t outweigh the loss of his arm, but it’s nice to have a sliver of a bright side. He gives Solas a tight-lipped smile and hopes the man is still as eager as ever to talk about himself. “Everything going to plan so far, then?”

“Not quite. While I did expect some revolt against you, I did not think anyone would go so far as murder. But, I suppose these are the people I’m dealing with.”

“We’re not all like Dhaven.”

“I am aware. You yourself would only kill if there was someone around to praise you for it.”

_Asshole_. Nebel won’t give him the satisfaction of a rise. He knows well that if he lunged now to give Solas the punch he so deserves, the fucker would find a way to either disappear or turn Nebel into stone. _It’s not worth it,_ Nebel reminds himself.

“I’m guessing you’re upset he didn’t succeed,” Nebel says.

“I’m guessing you are as well.”

_Not worth it_ , _not worth it, not worth it_ —

“But no, not necessarily,” Solas continues. “It was a complication, at best.”

Through his teeth, Nebel asks, “How so?”

Luckily, Solas doesn’t resist the invitation to keep hearing his own voice. “I have been growing acquainted with many of your people these past few nights. Some welcome the opportunity for change, while others are held back by … sentiment.”

“Are you really one to judge? Isn’t the whole point of this your own _sentiment_?”

Solas’s lips twitch. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. But these people hold attachments to things that are not even theirs to begin with. Can you guess what it is that’s holding so many of them back?” Nebel shakes his head. “No, I thought not. They remember Iron Bull, carrying your lifeless body over that cliff. Refusing to let you go, even as the healers did their best to save you.”

“They … really? We’re — that’s what’s stopping them?”

“A small act of kindness will only temporarily tip the scales. It’s only a matter of time before they remember the true nature of this world.” Solas looks around at the oak trees and mud, as if those illustrate his point in some way Nebel is too dense to understand. “It’s a flaw inherent to those with short lifetimes. The most recent memory is taken as truth.”

“Is that why you framed Hawke?”

“I have no comment on that incident,” Solas says as he tilts his head back and shuts his eyes, like he’s greeting the sun as it rises over the trees. The amulet he wears around his neck shines the color of the nearby lake. It’s rather ostentatious, compared to the typical ragged clothing he always wore with the Inquisition. But it’s not the first time he’s worn it; Nebel recognizes the necklace with enough clarity that he knows he could close his eyes and sketch out the exact engravings of the silver encasing the gem. Solas hadn’t worn it at the Crossroads — no, Nebel relives those last few moments often enough, and the Solas that destroys the Anchor in his nightmares never wears an amulet. Solas _could_ have had it when he’d come to heal Fenris, but Nebel wasn’t at a distance or an angle where he could make out such fine details.

So why does it look so familiar?

“But I will admit, I miscalculated a few things,” Solas says, breaking Nebel out of his thoughts. “I do wonder how this would have played out had I not taken care of those ogres ahead of Iron Bull’s men.”

“What? What do you mean?” The ogres — the ones the Chargers had been hired to kill, only to be informed last-minute that their contract was cancelled. The mission that nearly kept Bull from joining him.

“I assumed that when you and Iron Bull encountered Merrill, the two of you would surely part ways. That should have been enough to push you into a state where you’d be willing to speak the truth of the Evanuris.” Solas shrugs his shoulders as he locks his hands behind his back. “But it’s no matter. Regardless of the journey, the outcome is the same.”

“You fucking piece of — “

Solas shifts into one of the many bugs of the forest and disappears into a swarm. Nebel’s fist is left to swing at empty air. Embarrassing, as he’d predicted.

It was naive to expect any serenity from this walk, not when the Arlathvhen still smells of smoke when the wind blows the wrong way. He’d merely wished for a moment of peace before another day of conversations where all anyone can speak of is Fen’Harel and their strangely vivid dreams.

He could smoke. It’s a form of peace, in a murky sort of way. He’d at least be able to have those conversations without worrying so much over saying the wrong thing and pushing more people into Solas’s army. A drink on the edge of the cliff sounds quite pleasant as well, but he’d rather not risk taking that plunge again.

He returns to Bull.

He’s greeted with Antivan coffee, of all things. Bull offers only a joke about carrier crows when Nebel asks where he possibly found that in this area, but as soon as he takes a sip, he doesn’t care. The bitter beverage tastes like cherries and holds no memories of any lost clans. It’s a welcome change from the tea around here.

“I just talked to Solas,” Nebel says after the first sip of coffee warms his throat.

“Oh. Shit.” Bull’s stick that he’d been using to stoke the fire pauses in the middle of the flames. “What’d he say?”

“That we’re fucking with his plans.”

“Are we?” Bull asks through a sly grin. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”

“Do you want to pick apart everything he said with me?”

“Oh, _fuck_ yeah.”

Bull listens like every word from Solas’s mouth is a piece being shifted on his inner chess board. In the end, he offers little comment other than: “I shoulda known he knew about Merrill.”

No wonder Solas always spoke of their relationship like a temporary farce. How smug he must have been to know he had such a secret in his back pocket.

Nebel asks, “Why do you think he said so much? Why bother even telling me that people are hesitating?”

“‘Cause the shit that’s worked ’til now is gonna come back to bite us in the ass.” Bull continues at Nebel’s raised brow. “Look at it this way: if you saw your soldiers going soft-hearted at the thought of killing off the Venatori all ‘cause it turned out those Vints are tooth-achingly precious with their sweethearts, what would you do? Thinking like a manipulative bastard, which I know you can.”

“ _Rude_.”

“Don’t be coy. It’s why you kicked ass as Inquisitor. And you think I could love someone who doesn’t have a mild stroke of evil genius in them?”

Nebel flushes and looks down into his drink. He really only needs a minute to consider it. “Turn the people against the _sweethearts_ too, right? Prove they’re just as cruel as the Venatori.”

“There ya go.” Bull claps a hand on Nebel’s shoulder. Coffee splashes into the mud. “Just watch your back, alright? Keep a low profile. As much as the Herald of Andraste ever can.”

“Don’t remind me,” Nebel mutters.

“Now, hey,” Bull says, his voice soft and gravelly. “You want your hair braided or what?”

Nebel freezes mid-sip. It _has_ been down for days, ever since that damn magic vine of Merrill’s had sprung up and bound him to a tree. He’s hardly noticed. There’s been more to think about than the branches stuck in his hair.

It _would_ be nice to feel a little more cleaned up. But … it would be weird, wouldn’t it? He doesn’t want to give Bull the wrong idea, especially because of the direction he’s been leaning lately, but at the same time there _are_ years of history there, and it’s not like refusing this kindness would actually change anything.

“Sure. If you don’t mind,” Nebel says after an awkwardly long pause. He takes Bull’s invitation to sit between his legs and tuck his chin down. He doesn’t lean back, as much as the light pull on his scalp begs his body to give in to that instinct.

Just as he had a week ago, Bull braids it slower than he needs to. He’s stalling again. But this time, Nebel knows he’s not keeping his hands busy to disguise the worry in them. This time, the fingers that brush the back of his neck and trail his spine seem to linger just for the sake of it. He shivers. Bull always finds a way to untangle him.

“I’ve been thinking,” Bull starts.

“Uh oh.”

“Hey, when have my thoughts ever not turned out badass?”

“That time you got the Chargers trapped in a well for a day.”

“Uh, that was — Krem’s idea. Yup. Definitely his plan.” Bull coughs. “Anyways. Do you remember what you said, back when those assassins came for me?”

“That you were an idiot for letting them poison you.”

“That I was a good man.”

“Oh. That feels like forever ago.” Nebel remembers that moment as the first time he’d flirted with Bull without any ulterior motives. Before then, he’d never really expected anything to come of his ill-coordinated flirting; blatantly making passes at the male Qunari spy had been one of the only acceptable forms of rebellion against the sanitized image of him the Inquisition wanted to sell.

“Not to me,” Bull says. “But I’m an old man, compared to you.”

“Oh, please. You’re like, what, eight years older than me?” He scoffs. Bull isn’t even the oldest man he’s slept with. “Keep going.”

“You didn’t know who I was before. And you wouldn’t have been able to say that if you did.”

Nebel opens his mouth to refute that, but Bull’s fingers pause and he stops as well. Maybe that’s true. The more he thinks about it, the more he agrees, and there’s no point in lying when Bull’s fingers are so close to his pulse.

Bull continues despite Nebel’s lack of response. “But I wanna do better. I wanna live up to what you thought I was. I’ve got a lot of shit to work through. And here’s the thing I need to admit: I don’t have any clue what I’m doing in a relationship. And I don’t blame you if you don’t wanna be the one to teach me. I know that’s a big ask.”

Nebel doubts he’s even the right man for that job, but it’s not like he was for his last one either.

Bull picks up a strand he dropped somewhere along the way. “Think I’ve realized that the Qun gave me a few ideas that don’t quite, uh, line up with yours.”

“A few?”

“Hah. Yeah, we already know we don’t agree on how you get rid of a corpse. That was … interesting, that night.” The sound of Bull’s fingers scratching stubble comes from above. “And I know all of this should’ve come up earlier. I’m sorry about that. I let this fester too long.”

He did. And while it’s obvious how much Bull worries over Nebel’s health — especially after the plunge it took in the months following the Palace — that still isn’t an excuse. On the other hand, Nebel also knows that the concept of losing something he cares about is … _new_ to Bull, to say the least. Nebel mentally laughs at his younger self, the one who’d naively thrown himself at a Ben-Hassrath without a thought.

“I’m sorry too,” Nebel says.

“What for?”

“Calling you a coward. And a liar.”

Bull shrugs it off like he’d forgotten about it, but it’s a half-hearted lift of a single shoulder. “It was true.”

“I still shouldn’t have said it.”

When the faux-halla had appeared, Nebel had been trying to imagine his life a year from now were he to leave here on his own. He’d probably take up Sera’s offer to join the Jennies. He could find a way to grow and sell herbs in a city — Kirkwall, maybe, if word of what happened with Merrill doesn’t sour his relationship with Varric.

In every iteration, he’d needed to scrub the image clean of any trace of Bull, who just kept coming back to his side.

“If we do this, we have a lot to talk about. We probably always will,” Nebel says.

“I know.”

“Also, you’d have to marry me. It’s required, under Dalish law — you have to get bonded after the third big argument. And there are a lot of flowers involved. It’s a big affair.”

“I’d marry you, if you wanted.”

The sudden longing in Nebel’s chest surprises him. He doesn’t even know the full procedures of a bonding ceremony. There’d only been a handful in his clan in his entire lifetime, and they’d always felt like something meant for other people — the sort of people capable of a happy, peaceful life. Well, except for poor Safallan and Terthen. Safa hadn’t ever forgiven Nebel for that affair, even if she did make clear she blamed Terthen far more for their separation.

No, there isn’t any point to a bonding anymore. There’s no Creators to ask for their blessings, nor is there a clan to celebrate with. But when Nebel shuts his eyes and sees flowers and feasts and drums, he knows it’s not the ceremony that he’s missing. And for once, he lets himself imagine. As Bull’s hands weave together the ends of his hair, he pictures what Keeper Deshanna would say about the Qunari he’s brought home. The crass jokes from the apprentices. The ways that Bull would win them all over one by one with stories of Nebel’s many faux pas in shem’len society.

He wants it. But one step closer to reality would be his clan shaming him for being with someone who’d committed such crimes against the Dalish — or for even daring to have a wedding after what he’d done to sweet Safa. Another step closer would be Bull struggling through all these traditions, likely wanting to just run off and do some _real_ bondage in private. Another step closer and he’s back in the real world, his clan long dead.

He wants it. He knows he shouldn’t.

He blinks his eyes open when he hears a cough that can’t be from Bull. Of course it’s Fenris. The man never allows Nebel a moment with his thoughts. If the busybody elf looks this disgusted at their current position, Nebel can’t imagine the acrobatics his face would go through if he’d walked in on anything less clothed. Merrill and Hawke catch up from several paces behind Fenris, both strangely winded.

“Hello. How cozy,” Merrill says.

“Thanks?” Nebel says, unsure how else to respond to the sudden visitors. “Did you, uh, need something?”

Fenris opens his mouth, but then Hawke leans forward with the usual disregard for personal space and asks, “Can you do my hair like that too?”

“You can’t afford these fingers,” Bull says as he finishes tying off the braid.

“Baby, you don’t know what I can afford — “

“Enough,” Fenris snaps. But whatever he next has to say doesn’t come so easily. Fenris presses a hand to his forehead, looking like he’s fighting off a behemoth of a migraine. He sighs, and when he finally speaks, he won’t look at anything but the sky. “We came to ask for your help.”

* * *

They decide on Shielan’s campsite. Being on the far side of the Arlathvhen grounds affords them much-needed seclusion, and there’s the added benefit of Shielan being one of few elves around who don’t believe the Champion of Kirkwall burned down the whole of Dalish history. To Nebel’s relief, the rain has done a thorough job of washing clean the last of Ghilanna’s blood. Shielan decides to keep a watch closer to the main ceremony space, even though she claims no one has come anywhere near her campsite in the past day.

Storm clouds darken the sky by the time they’re ready. In the distance, a mellow song is being sung — it’s the story of Mythal rising from the sea and shaping the world with a single touch to Elgar’nan’s brow. Nebel knows the melody, but he long ago forgot the words, so he hums along and does his best to memorize them. The song swells to a chorus as Fenris approaches with a scowl.

“Keep us hidden. Do not let another mage near me,” Fenris tells him and Bull. “And don’t let Merrill get distracted.”

“No need to worry about that,” Merrill calls from the shawl she’s spread out over the dirt. “I have no problem focusing when it’s something as interesting as this. I mean — not interesting. Important. Well, it _is_ interesting, but — ”

Fenris cuts her off. “If anything goes wrong, Hawke is in charge.”

Bull gives a one handed flick of a salute. “And we can talk payment later.”

“What?”

Bull starts adding up numbers on his fingers. “Two Chargers, a couple hours each, multiply that by our service fees for dealing with weird magic bullshit … “

“Consider it repayment for saving that one’s life,” Fenris says with a roll of his eyes and his thumb pointing at Nebel.

“Fair enough,” Bull says. Nebel elbows him. In all honesty, though, Nebel expects having both Bull and him around as watchmen is going to be overkill. The main enemy here is going to be boredom, considering Merrill had said this could take anywhere from an hour to well into the night. At least the other three have protection from the rain.

“I hope this works,” Nebel says to Fenris, trying and failing to not make it sound like a goodbye. “But I’m glad we finally had a chance to meet. Hawke never would shut up about you.”

“Hm.” Fenris looks to the side and mutters, “Your help is appreciated,” then walks away before Nebel can be sure that he heard him right.

“Good luck,” Bull calls as Fenris goes to lay down beside Merrill and Hawke under the ironbark-woven cloth they’d propped up on tent stilts. It’s as waterproof as any roof they’d find in the city.

“Are you comfortable?” Merrill asks, sitting with her knees crossed by Fenris’s torso, while Hawke kneels at his head. “Do you need me to find another pillow?”

“I’m fine,” Fenris says through a consternated frown.

“Water, then? A blanket?”

“Merrill.”

“Yes?”

“Exactly how many of these schools are there in me?”

“Um.” Merrill shrugs. “One?”

“ _One?_ ”

“We’re just going to have to do it all at once! Not a problem at all.”

Nebel doesn’t know what they’re on about, but for a moment, Fenris looks ready to stand and run. But then Hawke takes his hand and stoops to whisper something in his ear, and even with tension making every limb stiff, Fenris still laughs at it. Of all the senses of humor to get under Fenris’s prickly skin, it’s Hawke’s remarkably stupid one.

Hawke sits back up, satisfied, but Fenris stops him from pulling his hand away. “Hawke,” he says in a tone that makes Nebel feel like he’s listening in on a conversation he shouldn’t be. “If I don’t make it through this — “

“Stop.”

“No. Let me say this. If I don’t make it, or if I wake up different … If I get my memories back and I’m not the same anymore — I love you. The me right now, right here, loves you. And I’ve enjoyed every second with you.”

“Well, that last bit is definitely a lie,” Hawke says. The scoff doesn’t cover the waver in his voice. “I love you too, Fen. But _I_ know you’ll still be you, no matter what. And you know why?” He pauses for a wink. “Because you’re an asshole at your core, and no ritual or memories could ever change that.”

Fenris laughs again. _They’re an odd couple,_ Nebel muses. Though he’s heard the same himself more times than he can count.

Merrill is still smiling when she asks, “Ready to begin?”

“Yes,” Fenris says, and he finally lets go of Hawke’s hand.

Hawke offers Merrill a knife. She has no hesitation as she slices open two wounds on her left forearm, nor does she flinch. Her eyes bathe the three of them with a brilliant blue glow as the blood rises into the air. The wispy crimson cloud stalls for a second, like it doesn’t know where it’s supposed to go. Then it jumps to life, circling her forehead three times before flying down to disappear in the skin of her open palm. Everyone but Merrill looks squeamish at the display. She rests that palm on Fenris’s shoulder, and as she shuts her eyes, the light around them fades back into dreary gray.

Merrill’s hair rises around her like a crown. The static in the air reaches Nebel, and he can’t help but think of her on top of that hill, summoning lightning to strike at his feet. There’s no rage in her expression this time — only a concentration so pure that he’s afraid to even breathe, lest it shatter.

Throughout it all, Fenris keeps his eyes fixed on Merrill. Every few seconds, a muscle spasms somewhere in his body, but his stern expression never changes. It looks like someone getting their vallaslin, actually. Nebel remembers hours of keeping up that hyper-focus to resist the twitches as the needle had passed over bone. The area around his eyes had been the worst. He wonders what area of the body Merrill is working on now, or if her magic is moving across the entire expanse of his tattoos at once. She’d been more than willing to explain the mechanisms of this magic in detail, but Fenris had insisted they get started before nightfall.

With one hand still hovering over Fenris, Merrill uses the other to carve open another two cuts. Four so far, then. How many does she plan to do? There’s no telling how much blood she’s lost when most of it turns to mist as soon as it hits the air.

Bull nudges Nebel in the shoulder. Right. They weren’t invited here to gawk. Nebel begins walking the perimeter of the camp, silent on his feet, while Bull stays in place and keeps his eye on the woods. Even at his most careful, Bull’s footfalls are far more likely to break Merrill’s focus than Nebel’s own.

For an hour, Nebel wanders in circles around the camp, chewing on his dwindling supply of sweet leaves to keep his energy up. The last remnants of autumn’s foliage turn to an orange mush that sticks to Nebel’s boots as he patrols. “How’re you doing?” he mouths to Bull at one point.

“Didn’t expect blood magic to be this quiet,” Bull whispers into his ear. It’s mildly annoying how much better than him Bull is at reading lips.

“Me neither,” Nebel mouths again. “So, is this your most boring bodyguard contract yet?”

“Eh, it’s not so bad. Every once in a while an elf with a nice ass walks by.” Bull winks. “Keeps the spirits up.”

Nebel grins under his rolling eyes and looks over at the others, wishing he too had a tarp to take cover under. The rain shows no sign of letting up. Hawke appears ready to burst with questions, probably ones similar to Nebel’s own. _How is it going, what does it feel like — when will it be over?_ Nebel turns to Bull, ready to ask his thoughts, when —

“No, Creators, _no_ — “

Nebel spins around. There’s nothing obviously wrong, except that Merrill has lifted her hands from Fenris and is staring at her flexed fingers like they’re unrecognizable.

“What’s going on?” Hawke asks.

The lyrium in Fenris begins to shine. His left shoulder flickers in and out of existence, the rain pouring through it one second and landing on sparking skin the next. And with a voice gone oddly small, he calls out, “Merrill?”

“My magic is blocked.“

_Blocked?_ Unless the sky started raining magebane, there’s only one other explanation. The thought makes Nebel draw his knife. He hopes to be wrong.

Merrill scrambles backwards and drags Hawke away as Fenris lifts his hands into the air. Tiny bolts of lightning fly off his clenching fists. Hawke breaks free, shouting Fenris’s name and diving forward to grab his wrists. The static grows.

Knowing what’s going to happen doesn’t make it any better.

Fenris yanks his fists away from Hawke at the last second. He screams, curling onto his side and clutching his hands into his chest. The lyrium flashes white and blue, and occasionally, a sickly green. Nebel understands, suddenly, why everyone looked so terrified as the Anchor acted up in the Crossroads. This is horrific to watch. Hawke makes the mistake of touching Fenris, and then he too is howling, biting down into the knuckles of his hand as his hair stands on end.

“Merrill!” A rush of footsteps. Bull lifts his axe high at Nebel’s side. There are gasping, panting breaths, barely audible over the chorus of screams, and then Shielan comes running, her body stopping before her feet as she grabs onto the trunk of a tree. “Merrill — you must run, there are templars coming!“

“Templars?” Hawke echoes. Merrill looks pale but unsurprised.

Lightning strikes, and Nebel has one second to realize that it hasn’t come from the sky. The light seems to originate from Fenris himself, and then it’s the only thing Nebel can see. He turns away, though it makes no difference. His eyes burn. Somehow, Hawke screams louder than anyone.

When he can see again, they’re not alone. Two templars stand in Shielan’s campsite, swords already drawn.

“Fenris!” Hawke cries, shaking Fenris even as sparks fly off his skin and burn up the hairs on Hawke’s arms. “Can you hear me?”

Nebel doesn’t need to see Fenris’s face to know that he can’t. The world seems to shrink as dozens of elves follow after the templars — _fenhedis_. Nebel tastes acid climbing his throat as the Dalish hide behind and in the branches of trees.

Despite the likely-dead man behind them and the ever-growing audience, one of the templars still has the nerve to shrug half-heartedly. “Huh. Solid intel, for once,” he says, as if this is the tenth blood ritual he’s walked in on this week. He sheathes his sword. From his looks and accent, he seems to be of Nevarran descent and older than most templars live to be.

The other one — blond, clean-cut, and looking far less impassive to the situation — juts his thumb out at Merrill. “Alright. Let’s get her to the Chantry.”

“The Chantry? Oh, no, I’m quite busy here.” Merrill waves off the templars like she’s declining an invitation to tea. She returns to Fenris. “I just need a moment to finish — “

“Finish what?” The blond templar steps in her way. “We could feel the blood magic as soon as we stepped into this forest.”

From under the charred remains of the tarp, Hawke’s voice sounds like a child’s. “Fen?”

There’s no response. Fenris is still. The only movement is the blood that seeps from his side before the rain washes it away into the dirt.

The Nevarran templar’s hand wraps around Merrill’s arm, catching her mid-lunge. Her calm begins to break. As she throws her weight towards Fenris, she cries, “Just let me heal him and I’ll go with you, okay?”

Hawke lifts Fenris’s head into his lap like he’s handling a precious vase with fingers he knows aren’t steady.

“Let her go,” Nebel says, stepping in front of the blond templar, who has the gall to laugh with a throat that looks suddenly very cuttable. Nebel risks a glance over his shoulder in time to see Hawke tip a familiar potion into Fenris’s mouth. The orange liquid shimmers between his pale lips, pooling even as Hawke’s knuckles massage his throat. He’s not swallowing. Fuck. Nebel really should’ve made poultices.

“Stop touching him,” the Nevarran templar says to Hawke. “We don’t know what’s she’s done to it.”

Hawke lets go of Fenris’s hand. It falls, limp. He stands with a face gone red and sword drawn. “Get out of here, _now_ , or I will make both of you shit-stained motherfuck — ”

The blond templar behind Nebel interrupts. “We’re only officially here for her. But you’d do best to mind yourself. We’re not afraid to act on our contingency orders.”

The forest seems to hold its breath as the templar puts away his sword. From within his robes, he draws out a handheld orb. Nebel gets only a glimpse of opaque white glass and the spikes of silver that encase it like a claw, but that’s enough to recognize it. He’s seen one before only in sketches from Dagna’s workshop, though she’d never dared to make one. A firestarter — enchanted, Imperial in design, and large enough to burn down this entire forest.

For an instant, red swallows the woods. The leaves turn black and disintegrate before their remains are blown away by a wind that smells of burning flesh. It’s vivid enough that it must be real. Nebel hears voices, hundreds of them, whispering and screaming in a language he barely knows. It’s a memory, from someone long before him; the clearest message from the well in months.

Halamshiral wasn’t the first, nor was Wycome. The Arlathvhen cannot be another.

There are gasps, cries, and curses thrown from the gathered elves. While the campsite had felt too cramped a second ago, they suddenly have double the amount of space as people rush backwards. Shielan’s face looks like she’s trapped in a silent scream before she finds refuge behind a tree.

Merrill waves her free arm over at what remains of the crowd. “But there’s so many people, they haven’t done anything — “

“Abetting blood magic? They’ve done plenty.” The blond templar points down at Merrill’s forearm, where the wounds have stiffened into dark red stripes. He elbows his way past Nebel, who can only watch in horror.

There’s no options. Defending Merrill from these templars would give the bastards a foolproof excuse to kill every elf on sight for years — claiming some two-armed woman on the road looked just like the wanted Inquisitor, claiming the Herald incited violence and the Dalish are now out for blood — and every elf from apprentice to Keeper here knows it. The few who don’t are held back by their exhausted, devastated elders.

Even Nebel can’t attack. The Dalish may see him as a tool of the Chantry, but he knows the Chantry sees him as nothing more than another rat in the woods.

While the Nevarran templar hangs onto Merrill’s left arm, the blond one lifts her right one into the air with a gloved hand. Blood trails down to her elbow, leaving streaks of pink that form quicker than the rain can wash away. He examines her forearm like it’s sludge he’s dredged up from the bottom of a barrel.

Hawke roars, wordless and guttural. Both templars drop Merrill’s arms and step back, eyes gone wide and hands reaching for their hilts. Hawke runs at them, sword aimed to come down on the skull of whichever templar ends up closer.

“Stop!” Merrill screams.

Hawke does, thankfully. If Nebel knows the Chantry, they’ve been looking for an excuse to light the match since whenever word got out that the Arlathvhen was here. Nebel rushes through his options for any that he may have overlooked, but when he looks to Bull for help, he finds the man has disappeared. _Well, shit._

Hawke stands with his sword still poised over his head and his eyes blinking rapidly. His hand quivers, but he can’t seem to move. “I’m not letting you go,” he says.

Merrill tilts her head down until her chin touches her chest. If the world were fair, she’d be engulfed in blue, giving off sparks and flames until these templars were nothing more than dust. Nebel’s knives would be in their necks, and Fenris would be alive and awake and tearing the hearts from them both.

Instead, Merrill holds out her hands and whispers, “If I go with you, you’ll leave my people alone, yes?”

The Nevarran templar gives a worthless nod. From under one of the many folds of his robe, he detaches a pair of metal cuffs.

“I’m sorry, Hawke. Tell Fenris that too. So, so sorry,” she says as the templar fastens the locks behind her back. Nebel counts four keys and ten clicks. _Fenhedis_. Even with the proper tools, he’d need hours of concentration to break through that. Merrill stands no chance. “Go. Get him somewhere safe.”

“Don’t do this, Merrill.”

“I’ll be alright. Take care of him,” she says with a tender grin. “I’ll see you again, someday.”

As Merrill’s shoulder blades press together to fit the cuffs, Nebel knows: this is the end of the Arlathvhen. No one would dare come to another — not after this, not after the fire. The scribes will list him and Merrill and the rest of them as the fools who brought an end to what remained of Dalish history. They should have all stayed home and left this to those who don’t carry trouble with them like a plague.

The Nevarran templar tests the locks, then begins to escort her away. They pass under the glares and scowls of a dozen different elves, though no one stands in their way. The mages in particular bristle as they come near — it must be that templar blocking their magic. The blond templar trails from behind, looking equal parts disgusted and uncomfortable.

Nebel prepares to stop Hawke from chasing them, but Hawke’s boot only brushes the ground once before he squeezes his eyes shut and pivots around, returning to Fenris and dropping his sword.

Merrill must have a plan. She certainly walks like she does, looking more like she’s on a pleasant stroll with two friends than a prisoner being led to either a Tranquility brand or an execution block. There’s no way she’d turn herself over without one. But then again, he’d thought the same of Bull a week ago.

Nebel takes a breath and tells himself this will be fine. He pauses, mid-inhale. It’s been days since the fire, but the scent of smoke hits him with renewed strength and he has to fight back a cough. He must have become used to it at some point, just as he’d grown accustomed to the taste of ash that had stuck with him for weeks after Haven.

_I’ll be alright._ He’d said the same there, hadn’t he? As he’d ushered the others into the Chantry, swearing he’d see them again. As he’d walked out into the snow and stepped up to that trebuchet, knowing that that Corypheus’s face was the last thing he’d ever see.

_I’ll be alright_ , he hears Merrill say yet again.

Merrill and the templars are already disappearing into the trees. They’ll reach the road soon, and then the city, and then the musty dungeons of a Chantry. Hawke clings to Fenris like the templars may well come back and take him too. And suddenly, Nebel is struck by just how much Hawke looks like Bull on the cliffs of the Storm Coast on that fateful day: young, scared, like his heart is under fire behind him. Lost. Desperate for someone, _anyone_ to step in and tell him where to go from here.

Nebel folds his fingers around his knife and remembers what it felt like to go up against a dragon with Bull at his side and the Creators watching over him. He has to end this — he was the fucking Inquisitor, dammit, and if he doesn’t move, no one will.

“You will stop this, _now_.”

Steel slides against leather. Metal catches the light of the narrow slice of the sky the rainclouds haven’t yet covered. Every eye lands on Nebel. With his dagger drawn and head held high, he closes the space between him and the templars. He glances over his shoulder just once, and he’s thankful to see Hawke has broken out of his shock long enough to shuffle Fenris onto his shoulders and retrieve his sword.

The sound of footsteps stops. When Nebel turns back around, the templars are flanked by trees and glowering elves — some at the handcuffs and the men holding them, some at Nebel himself — and the Nevarran templar has his eyes fixed on Hawke as well. Nebel side-steps to get in the way of his view, and though the length of his arms doesn’t fully block either templar, he stretches them wide anyway.

“You’re trying to stop us?” the blond templar asks.

“You’re not taking another step with her,” Nebel says. “Tell me — do you know who I am?”

Merrill blinks at him like he’s an raving idiot. The templar towering over him has the gall to look confused. “Yes, we do — “

“Then you know that I can personally see to it that your life is made a living hell. Do not make me get Divine Victoria involved.”

In truth, he has no idea if Vivienne would take his side if he struck these templars down. But he’s the only one here with the power to make that bluff, and he’d sooner slice their throats and beg at her feet than see them lay on a hand on his people.

As if Nebel has slipped into Elvhen, the two templars look at each other with perplexed, discomforted expressions. They can fake ignorance all they want. He will not back down.

“But … “ The Nevarran templar fidgets and looks around at the crowd.

“But, what? You’re going to burn down this forest with the Divine’s companions inside?” Nebel’s lip curls. “You forget who got her elected.”

“But you’re the one who called us here.”

All noise disappears. His mind goes silent. “What?”

The other templar gives the Nevarran one a dirty look, then leans forward like he’s telling Nebel a secret. “Help us out here. Do you still need to play dumb? You were right though — that blood mage was already losing control by the time we got here. And with all that slave’s lyrium ... It’s a wonder she didn’t blow up this whole forest.”

From under another fold in his robe, the Nevarran templar pulls out a black notebook. “Really, you did good. Without your warning — who knows what would have happened to everyone here?”

The elves don’t shout. In the hush of the forest, there are only whispers as Nebel takes the bound book. Raindrops fall on its leather cover, seeping through the spots his fingers have worn thin over the years.

_He was meant to make things better._

Distantly, he’s aware that Merrill is staring at him in bewilderment. He can’t tell if she believes them, but the other whispers grow. The blond templar turns to the noise and draws his sword in warning.

_He was meant to protect them._

And then, like a wolf emerging from its den after a season without prey, something growls in the woods. Something feral, as full of rage as Nebel had been before those nonsensical words. The templars whip around, just in time to watch Bull come forth from the trees with his axe raised over his horns. Blood drips from the blade onto his shoulder. He swipes one finger across the red streaks and licks it clean. And in a voice void of any emotion, he says only three words in explanation: “Anaan esaam Qun.”


	20. Chapter 20

There should be screaming. Or maybe there is, somewhere hidden under all the blood pounding in Nebel’s ears and the unrelenting rain that makes the world just as gray as Bull’s empty eye. When lightning fills the sky, he can’t look at anything but that axe and unknown blood that drips from it. He hears no thunder.

“Bull?”

There’s no sign of recognition. Nebel risks a step towards the man, but his foot doesn’t make contact before Bull lifts his axe and rushes forward. Nebel feels nothing. Gray is all he sees.

“ _Ebost issala,_ ” he hears.

He turns. Bull has sprinted past him and isn’t stopping. Merrill presses herself against a tree while Hawke scrambles backwards, Fenris dragging along beside him. One of the templars screams. The other tries to run.

“Bull, stop!”

The angle of Bull’s swing is unnatural, but there’s no time to figure out why before his axe hits the back of the blond templar’s skull. He collapses in a pile of robes and armored limbs and far less blood than a split-open head usually entails.

“What’s going on? Stop him!” The conscious templar extends his sword towards Bull but makes no move to attack.

“What are you doing?” Nebel chokes out. “I don’t understand.”

But then the axe’s shaft spins in three and a half rotations, and suddenly, he does. Bull’s intimidating twirling does its job — the other templar jumps back in alarm and doesn’t seem to notice that Bull had swung his axe with the blade-less side down. An impact that strong will likely still be fatal, but at least the people who have gathered won’t witness a head being chopped in two. Nebel uses the distraction to slip the notebook into his jacket.

“Sorry, _bas_. Guess it’s time.” A tip of Bull’s head has his right horn pointing straight at Fenris, who remains disturbingly lifeless in Hawke’s clutches. “Not ‘sposed to let either of you die before we get to Par Vollen.”

Slabs of bark crack as Nebel takes slow, cautious steps back over them. “Bull, no. You can’t do this.” A twisting root catches his ankle and he stumbles, catching himself on his elbow. He makes a fist around where his tooth would hang on his collar if he’d chosen to wear it. “What about — what about _us_?”

It takes only two steps for Bull to close the distance between them. There’s no humor in his smirk as he stares down his nose at Nebel, nor is there any feeling in his eye as he rips the tooth off his neck. The leather cord tears with a snap. Bull doesn’t look as he discards it into the mud.

“Good one.”

How lucky that heartbreak is so fresh in Nebel. It’s easy enough to put it on his face, looking at Bull and thinking of mirrors and fire and vines. He gives it a second, a display of a pain longer and more raw than the Inquisitor was ever supposed to show.

Lightning strikes. He’s not going to get a better cue than that.

Nebel springs forward, swinging his foot with a power that he dampens at the last moment, leaving his kick little more than a tap by the time it collides with the back of Bull’s leg. Bull bellows with the thunder, falling onto his buckling knee. _Duck_ , screams instincts Nebel thought had died a year ago. He does, and Bull’s swinging fist grazes the crown of his head instead of sending him flying into a tree. In the flash of a moment when their eyes meet, Bull flinches.

Nebel grabs the closer of Bull horns, squeezes, and prays. The rain has made it too slippery for this to work; but then again, he’d climbed the cliffs of the Storm Coast on days far worse than this.

Bull rises with a string of angry Qunlat, spinning on his heel to take a wild strike at the pest hanging from his horns. It’s a gift of momentum that Nebel’s going to need. He accepts it with his eyes clenched shut as he swings his legs up and around until they can wrap Bull’s neck in a chokehold. But he can’t quite get upright; he ends up with his head hanging down Bull’s bucking back and his arm just barely hanging onto Bull’s right horn.

“Run!” Nebel screams to the flipped versions of those shell-shocked fools from Kirkwall and the remaining templar. If any of the Dalish listen too, he’d be all too glad. “I’ll take him, just go!”

Hawke and Merrill follow his orders, at least. The shawl they’d laid across the ground sticks to Fenris’s bleeding side as Hawke lifts him into his arms, then falls in a crumpled, crimson pile as they run. Shielan follows close behind.

Then, from his left — or his right, he can’t tell at this angle — an elf comes barreling at them, knife stretched out in front of her. _Shit_. Nebel holds tight as Bull spins, roaring and slamming a fist into a tree. The world shakes. When the forest has righted itself, the elf is gone. Bull screams after her fleeing form.

With every aching muscle in his chest, Nebel curls his torso upwards and pulls his body out of the tangle he’s found himself in. Then, in a flurry movement and kicked-up mud, Nebel finds himself properly upright again, sitting high on Bull’s shoulders. Bull grunts. Nebel’s the only one who knows it’s in pride.

Nebel doesn’t know how long they fight. Time seems to pass like sprays and bursts from a clogged spigot. He gets Bull in a headlock; Bull bucks and roars until Nebel’s holding on just by his arm and needs to clamber back up Bull’s back. It’s quicker this time — maybe. It’s hard to tell when Nebel’s just focused on clutching his thigh and screaming as if Bull has driven a nail into it.

But when Nebel spares a glance at the Nevarran templar, he sees narrowed eyes and a stance more poised to observe than to flee. He doesn’t believe it. _This isn’t going to work_ , Nebel realizes in dismay. They just look like two madmen throwing mud in the woods. All Nebel can hope is that no one else steps in to help.

Bull swings his axe straight up, and Nebel’s breath catches when he hears a _bang_. But no pain comes. Nebel opens his eyes to see the tip of the blade stopped only an inch from his shoulders, its shaft having collided with Bull’s horn before it could come any closer. For fuck’s sake — Bull’s lucky Nebel hadn’t been leaning forward at that moment.

Bull’s hidden message is right, though. They’re both armed, yet not a drop of blood has been shed. Nebel wouldn’t buy this act either.

“ _Vinek kathas!”_

Attack.

“No!” Nebel shouts. He _can’t_. This is Bull, his vhenan, the one who’s carried him like this so many times before, traipsing across hills and deserts and what feels like half the length of the world together.

Bull digs fingertips into Nebel’s ankle, jerking it forward in a weak attempt to throw him off. “ _Parshaara.”_

Enough.

Nebel hooks the stump of his left arm over Bull’s horn and squeezes with his armpit, hopefully strong enough to hold him in place. He releases his right hand and unsheathes his dagger.

He can’t hesitate. If he does, he knows he won’t go through with it.

Bull’s shoulder feels the same as any other. Skin breaks, flesh severs, and the muscles tense and resist for an instant before they tear under the metal of his blade. It’s Bull’s scream that feels different.

_This isn’t real._ Nebel tells himself that over and over even as Bull’s blood splatters against his chest. But the hot salt that burns his eyes is real, as is the scratch in his throat as he howls, “Go!”

The templar finally bolts, tripping over his feet as they get caught in his robes. At least half the Dalish remaining scatter as well — likely some to bolster the facade and some in genuine terror. Nebel tries to focus on the sensation of rain on his skin instead of the feeling of shifting flesh as he pulls out his knife. He does it as quickly as he can; Bull still swears under his breath. Nebel relies on Bull to keep up the half-hearted show of grunts and shoves.

When the templar has disappeared, Nebel folds over Bull’s horns. Neither of them speak as Bull stoops down, giving Nebel the chance to unravel his legs and slide off his back until his ass meets the wet, cold ground. Nebel catches his breath, keenly aware of how many people are still watching him.

“ _Vashedan._ You got me good.” Bull kneels and presses his palm into his wounded shoulder. A white chunk of fur falls off his axe as it clatters to the ground. A rabbit, then. He’d wondered what Bull had sacrificed for his show of madness.

“Bull, you … you idiot.” Nebel hangs his head, then whispers, “Thank you.”

“Happy to,” Bull says, though he looks more tired than happy. “Vivienne’s gonna have some harsh words for us.”

That’s true, and hopefully the extent of it. No Dalish elves attacked any templars, and the Champion of Kirkwall behaved, so there _shouldn’t_ be any retribution — or at least, nothing immediate. As far as the Chantry will know, a Qunari went mad in the woods. And ever since Kirkwall, the Chantry doesn’t act lightly when it comes to the Qun.

It should buy them time, at least enough to get out of here.

There’s a tentative step behind them, then another. Nebel brushes wet hair from his face to see Marelwyn is the one who’s braved approaching them. “Are you okay?”

“I’m alright, kiddo,” Bull says, accepting the pink healing potion she holds out at arms-length. Bull downs it one swallow. These crystal grace potions aren’t quite as potent as the ones Nebel makes, but it should do its job. The flesh begins to weave itself back together, and within an hour it should be just another scar on Bull’s expanse of them.

There’d been been no trace of emotion in Bull’s eye as he’d ripped the tooth from his neck and dropped it. Now, lifting it from the mud and wiping it on his pants that do nothing to get it clean, he looks like a happening upon the corpse of a bird they’d spent hours mending the wing of.

When Nebel finds it in him to look away, he sees there’s only about a dozen elves left. The few who’d found refuge in the trees descend with wary eyes still fixed on Bull. What had been whispers becomes conversations, flustered and confused. He thinks someone asks him a question, but in the torrent of rain, everything blurs together.

“Bull,” Nebel says, tilting his head back to let the water wash the mud, sweat, and blood from his brow. “Would you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

And when he tells him, Bull grins, lopsided and maniacal in a way that Nebel will never tire of. “You got it, boss,” he says, and then he takes off like he’s been given the signal to rush a dragon, shouting Qunlat phrases that probably amount to babbling nonsense.

Stoking the war with the Qun isn’t what Nebel had expected when he’d told Bull he was leaving for the Arlathvhen. That’s alright. The Chantry will approach any dealings with the Qunari delicately — at least until someone with a brain bigger than a halla dropping realizes this was a ruse. But by that point, the Arlathvhen will be over, the Dalish will be long gone from here, and can petition Vivienne to claim the blame for himself, if need be. They’re long overdue for a passive aggressive chat over some bitter tea anyway.

“Clever,” someone says. Nebel jumps to his feet on instinct at the voice, and he spins around to come to face-to-face with Dhaven, arms crossed and brows arched over a newly fashioned eyepatch. “Now tell us this, Inquisitor. Why in the name of the Creators would you call templars to the Arlathvhen?”

* * *

Fenris hears laughter. His name, called in a hundred different voices. The sound of a sword being sharpened, of chains rattling, of people screaming for help and then falling silent.

Something touches his leg. He thrashes, throwing his body to the side, anything to avoid the grip that wants to drag him away.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Fenris opens his eyes. He’s lying in a cave — he’s been here before, retrieving a living Lavellan when he’d expected a corpse — but this time the walls are closing in on him, and the stalactites are dripping acid that will surely burn him to the bone if it falls. He rolls out of the way of a drop.

“Fenris, hold still, _please_.”

He sees Merrill, except this Merrill has blood oozing from her eyes, leaving trails down her neck, and she’s on her knees beside him but she’s surely going to trap him here. She reaches out a hand, its skin blistering and hanging in shreds.

Fenris jerks away. “Don’t touch me.”

“Fenris?” Fenris looks up to see Hawke, holding a scrap of cloth and an uncapped canteen, except — is this Hawke? It looks like him, mostly, but has his jaw always been so broad? Has he always had a mole on his wrist there? Fenris doesn’t know, he can’t remember, and what a cruel and clever trick it would be for a demon to take the form of his lover.

“I’m sorry. We should have been more careful, maybe if I’d studied it more — “ Merrill presses her knuckles into her temples, then relaxes them with a long exhale and a reassuring nod to herself. “But I can fix this, I promise. If we act soon — “

The ritual. His markings. Fenris raises a hand and sees his tattoos lit up in blue, and something is crawling in them, something black that bulges under the skin, and he needs to get it out —

Fenris gasps and flexes his fingers so they can’t move, despite the burning itch to dig into his flesh. He feels a hand on his hip, but there’s nothing there when he bats it away. He turns to Merrill and spits a spray of red in her direction. “What have you done to me?”

Merrill covers her mouth with her shaking hand. Of course she has nothing to say for herself.

Fenris prays for relief, squeezing his eyes shut and pleading with the Maker for mercy. But his eyelids hold their own images of death and gore, people he hasn’t seen in years impaled on weapons he’s never imagined. He can’t see this anymore. He’d do anything for darkness. His fingers lift to his face, and as his fingernails rest over his lids, he sees a vision of himself in that walled-off cell, red lights shining into empty sockets.

“What’s going on?” Hawke. The real Hawke. That’s his voice, undoubtedly, that’s how his voice cracks with anger when he’s feeling lost, and Fenris tries to cling to that one bit of reality.

“Potions aren’t the same as people, as it turns out,” Merrill says. “I’m sorry. This is my fault.”

An image of Merrill drowning, her lungs filled with lyrium. Fenris’s fingers curl. He feels flesh in the gap between nail and skin, and then Hawke’s hands are around his wrists, pulling them away and holding them to the ground.

“No,” Fenris says. “It’s my fault. I never should have trusted you.”

“Fen! She’s doing her best, if it weren’t for those templars — “

“Then I’d be even further gone. I should _thank_ them for interrupting before I lost the rest of my mind.”

Merrill won’t look at him anymore. It all but confirms his suspicions.

“Hawke, please,” Fenris says, as a Hawke in his mind succumbs to the same fate as his mother. “I can’t stay like this. I need you to — “

“No, no, absolutely not.” Hawke gathers Fenris in his arms, pulling his upper body to lay in Hawke’s lap. Hawke’s thigh is warm against the back of Fenris’s head, and when he looks at Hawke’s hand on his sternum, he realizes for the first time how quickly his chest is rising and falling. “Hey. Listen to me, alright? I’ve got you.”

He does. His touch is both secure and restraining, too tight and not tight enough. Fenris needs him; Fenris is suffocating and needs _air._

“Merrill!” someone shouts from behind.

Fenris rolls off Hawke’s lap and onto to his side, and he screams at the pain. If there’s any saving grace to this nightmare corrupting reality, it’s that it’s at least kept him from noticing the pain in his hip up until now. He feels like he’s been stabbed and then had the wound pounded by a boot over and over again.

He sees Shielan, standing in the mouth of the cave, hands covering her mouth as she stares at him. And then, from above, a shadow descends, a dozen mouths open to devour her.

“Watch out!” he yells.

Shielan spins. The shadow is gone.

_It was never there_ , Fenris tells himself, but he sees another curling around a crag of rock. He tries to breath. He can’t. Hawke and Merrill roll him onto his back again, and he allows it out of desperation to get the weight off his side. He takes a breath that feels like a gulp of water.

“I’m sorry for taking so long. I found — “ Shielan wheezes. “I found a few mages who can help.”

“No!” Fenris cries, and Hawke’s hands on his shoulders are the only thing stopping him from jumping to his feet. He’ll run, he’ll dive head first into the rocky water, he’ll do anything to keep those mages away from him. They’re going to use him, just like Merrill. They’ll bind him to a demon, trapping him like this until the end of infinity, and all he’ll be able to do is watch while they use his body as they please —

Merrill waves her off. “Ma serannas, Shielan. Please, have them help with the evacuation. I’m sure they’re needed there.”

He tilts his head back and sees Shielan still standing there, despite the fact that her throat has been sliced open. “Is he — will he be alright?”

“Would you mind keeping watch for us, Shielan?” Merrill asks as she turns back to Fenris. At the very least, he appreciates her choice not to answer with a lie.

But Shielan doesn’t listen. Shielan enters the cave, takes one look down at Fenris, and says, “You’re not dying. Remember your _ins_ and _outs_ , alright?”

Shielan leaves with a prayer and an armful of canteens to refill weighing her down, and though _the air is poison, he’s going to choke at any second, Merrill is going to plunge a hand straight through him_ , Fenris tries. He breathes, following the slow rhythm of inhales and exhales that the Fog Warriors once passed to him and he in turn passed along only days ago.

On the second cycle,his heart slows. The visions are still there, flashes of red hiding behind every rock formation, but they’re not real. The air is cold and tastes of lake water. And despite the blood and sweat, Hawke still smells like a cozy evening beside a fireplace.

On the third, Fenris feels something warm on his knee. He looks down to see —

_Hands_. Dozens of them, but each of them the same. Countless copies of those awful, manicured, pillow-soft hands he’d dealt with for years crawling up his sides, kneading into him like they might rearrange his flesh, sinking through his skin like they’ve been granted that power through lyrium.

Fenris vomits across Hawke’s lap.

No, he may not be dying. But he can’t live with this hell any longer.

He breathes. The hands disappear, but he’s struck by an age-old desire to scrub his skin raw. He buries his fists in Hawke’s shirt and looks up into crying, chestnut eyes. “Fix it or put me out of my misery.”

Hawke nods, somehow ignoring the mess across his pants. Fenris spares a glance to Merrill, and nothing is attacking her, nothing demonic leaking from her orifices, but she doesn’t look pleased. She frowns and tilts her head to the side.

“Which do you want, Fenris?”

Fenris’s fingers unsnarl from Hawke’s now-torn shirt. “What?”

Merrill holds out both palms like they’re the plates of a scale. “Which way would you prefer? I can kill you, if you want. That would certainly be easier for me.”

“Merrill!” Hawke exclaims.

“What?” She feigns innocence through wide, blinking eyes, as if the question was which blend of tea he’d fancy. “I did this on purpose, didn’t I? How could I possibly fix it?” She turns back to Fenris, and he can’t tell if the irritation wrinkling the corners of her eyes is real or another trick of his mind. “Fenris. You say all the time that you’d rather die than put yourself in the hands of a mage. And if that’s how you feel, well — “ She shrugs. “I won’t force you to do anything.”

Hawke stares at her with his mouth agape, the same betrayal he’d worn as he’d driven the knife into Anders.

Merrill leans down to whisper in Fenris’s ear, her breath strangely cold. “Hawke doesn’t even need to know. I can make it look like an accident.”

“You’re insane,” Fenris says, pushing her away.

She sits back upright, then cocks her head. “Am I?” Her lip quivers, even as she gives a tight smile. “I guess I must be.”

“Stop this,” Hawke commands.

Her act breaks. All at once, her facade of detached calm leaves her, and she slumps, dejected. “What else am I meant to do?” she asks in a whisper to the ceiling of the cave. She covers her reddening face with her hands, and she looks small — young, even — as she pulls her knees to her chest. “I can’t keep groveling for your trust, Fenris.”

Of all the voices to hear, so vivid it may well be real, Fenris doesn’t expect it to be Anders whispering in his head: _you’re full of shit_.

He sees the ghost then, standing above Merrill and Hawke, eyes as white as the moon. He looks as he had in those final years, pale skin stretched over a gaunt face, his beard patchy from the spots he’d obsessively pulled.

_Leave me, mage_ , he thinks.

_I’d rather not._

To Fenris’s ire, Anders kneels beside Hawke. He rests his transparent head on Hawke’s shoulder, and his cheek dips into his Hawke’s clavicle. Hawke and Merrill are saying something, but Fenris hears nothing but the sounds of bubbling water from them.

Anders points one long, chipping nail at Merrill. _Why did you let her try this in the first place?_ _Did you just want to prove to Hawke that she’d fail?_ He rests a hand over Hawke’s. Their thumbs combine into one. _He has so few friendships left. What a great way to destroy another._

_No,_ Fenris thinks. _This was a mistake._

He tries not to think of Anders kneeling, of Hawke’s wide eyes looking down at his neck as Fenris had told Hawke to just give the mage what he wanted. Anders smiles anyways.

Fenris never should have put aside his distrust, even for the sake of his life. Magic runs through her veins, and no amount of tea or shared concern for Hawke will ever change that. Maybe she didn’t do this on purpose; she still did nothing to prevent it, and he should have listened to the instincts that had told him to run from her and her harebrained theory of a cure. But he’d panicked; he hadn’t been thinking clearly, all because —

_You’re afraid. Of course you are._

“I’m not,” Fenris says. Hawke and Merrill share a look.

_Or is it that you’re jealous again? They_ are _quite_ _friendly with each other. Hawke and I weren’t even that close, and you_ still _had him kill me._

“No, that’s not — “

Anders laughs. _You thought that, not me._

Fenris imagines a stalactite impaling Anders from above, but nothing happens. This isn’t a dream, after all.

_No,_ Anders says, finally unlacing himself from Hawke. _I think you do trust her. And you’re afraid of what what means._

Fenris looks to Merrill, who watches him with eyes just as full of tears as Hawke’s and blood still dripping from her already-scarred arms, and he realizes: he _does_. Or at least, he wants to.

And he doesn’t know what to do with that.

Fenris can still hear a part of him screaming that this is Merrill’s fault, that allowing her to do more would leave him a mindless beast — the part of him that wants solitude, because solitude is what he _deserves._ Solitude is what keeps him safe from the people who will use him and throw him away like everyone else always has. And for the few who won’t, his isolation is the only thing preventing a repeat of the Fog Warriors.

But there’s another part of him — a sentimental, idiotic part that Hawke has tilled and watered over the course of a decade — that believes in her. A part that finds itself thinking of Kirkwall, of Merrill, of Varric and Aveline and Isabela and even Anders lurking in the corner, and longs for just one more night together at the Hanged Man.

He’d thought an early death was the price he’d pay the Maker for a life of solitude. But as it turns out, that’s not even the life he wants anymore.

_I always knew your fear would kill you._

“I’m not afraid,” he spits to Anders’s face, smug even in death.

_Then prove it_.

Fenris grits his teeth and wishes he had something to throw.

“Fix me,” he says.

The illusion crumbles into a fetal position, just like the real Anders had on the cobblestone streets of Kirkwall, and then it fades. Hawke grips his hand, and the nightmare wants him to believe that the tightness is a shackle binding him, but he refuses. Those are Hawke’s callouses, rough against his knuckles, and no delusions will ruin what may well be his final moment.

With one wipe of her elbow across her eyes, Merrill wears the solemn face of a healer at work again. “I’m going to need more blood,” she says, and extends her forearms as the proof neither of them asked for. Fenris swallows. There must be ten cuts — no, it’s closer to fifteen, maybe even twenty — in neat slices up her forearms, dripping black blood that bubbles on its way out. Fenris squeezes Hawke’s hand, and then the cuts are normal red tracks that have scabbed over with the glossy clots that healing potions always leave behind.

“Use mine,” Hawke says, and Fenris wants to argue. This is too much for Hawke; Hawke scars easily, blood secretly makes him woozy, his back is still recovering from the burns.

But there’s no one else, and Fenris has already made his choice.

She passes Hawke the knife, leaving the decision of where to use it in his hands. Hawke rolls up a sleeve into a cuff, and then Fenris can’t see anymore because Hawke is leaning over him, pressing kisses to his forehead and nose and cheeks, light and sweet even as the rotting smells of magic and blood fill the air.

He gives Hawke the smile he’s so clearly craving, then pulls him in for one last, real kiss before a shock runs up his arm and the cave goes dark.

* * *

“Well? Nothing to say?”

Nebel wishes he had a mirror to show what he sees to rest of the Dalish as Dhaven stomps closer. They’d be rightfully horrified at the smug pleasure on his face as he looms over Nebel, blocking his path. As if anyone has ever been capable of caging the Inquisitor in against a tree. Nebel hides an irrepressible sneer under his sleeve as he wipes away the mud that Dhaven splashed up.

“I was right. You’ve always been under the thumb of the Chantry,” Dhaven says. He stretches out a hand with flexed, demanding fingers. “Show us that notebook.”

Bull’s theory of the missing journal had been the closest: an act of forgery, likely a fake correspondence between Nebel and Solas himself. Nebel is sure that Bull could’ve figured the rest of it out if the suffocating question of their relationship hadn’t taken up so much of their time and thoughts.

Nebel pulls the notebook from his jacket, pretending to have more trouble with the movement than he does. He needs to buy himself time to think. Should he drop it in the mud? No, someone here is bound to know a spell to clean parchment. The rain splatters over ink and charcoal, bleeding over his fingers even as he does his best to shield it while he skims for the first empty page. With an exhale that flutters the parchment’s corners, he turns to the last written entry.

His eyes jump to Merrill’s name.

_This is who to look for. Her likeness is easy to spot:_

A sketch of Merrill’s face, capturing her vallaslin and brows and tied-up hair in messy charcoal strokes.

_Forgive me for the extra burden of this notebook — there are few better ways to confirm my identity, and I acknowledge the fear that comes with entering a den of Dalish. But I assure you, this is no trap. The people there will be displeased with me, but I cannot stand by in the face of this danger._

_When you are finished, rip out this page and drop the notebook on the road to Montsimmard. It will make its way back to me._

Dhaven loses patience and grabs the notebook from his hand. Nebel shouldn’t need all this time to reread something he’s already written, after all.

“You really did send for them,” he says, before his eye has even finished scanning the page. He sounds surprised, strangely — it must be a rarity for one of his accusations to turn out correct.

Someone would have to think the Inquisitor a real damn idiot to believe that nonsense about using the notebook to verify his identity. _But,_ Nebel thinks, _that’s the majority of Thedas, isn’t it?_ A few too many misguided choices, a few too many banquets he couldn’t possibly attend sober, and now here he is, cursing himself both for his reputation and not fighting harder to stop the thief. It was cocky to assume his stolen notebook would lead him to Solas and not down a path that ends with his back against a wall.

“Lethallin, why would you do this?” A Keeper he remembers is named Arlise’el asks, gently, as if there’s a misunderstanding hiding somewhere in this and she might stand a chance of coaxing it out.

“I’m sorry,” someone pleads to her. “I should’ve never let him or the Sabrae mage in.” It’s that guard again, the one who’d let them in, the one who still doesn’t understand the limits of her responsibilities — U’vunlea of the Salshira clan. She’d complimented his soup. Said it tasted like her mother used to make.

Nebel regrets coming here, regrets this dumb attempt to weasel his way back into a world he has no place in anymore. When he eventually faces all of these people, months or years or decades from now when they’re fighting on Solas’s side, he’ll be forced to remember their names as he strikes them down.

“ _Harellan_.” It doesn’t matter who says it. It may as well be all of them.

He can’t prove he didn’t do it. The penmanship is flawless, and even if they believed it was faked, the alternative is nauseatingly believable. The Herald who conscripted the mages, saved the empress, and helped get Vivienne elected wouldn’t hesitate to raise the alarms on a blood magic ritual. How betrayed they must feel. The most powerful Dalish elf in centuries and the Champion of Kirkwall, a supposed friend of the People, turning against them without a thought. A world that cruel deserves to be destroyed.

But it’s like Bull always says: sometimes the truth is harder to prove than a lie.

“Everyone,” Nebel says. “I’m sorry.”

Even after getting exactly what he wanted, Dhaven looks hurt, not smug. “You’d admit it, then,” he says.

Nebel mirrors the pain on Dhaven’s face as he tucks away the notebook, his nails digging into soggy leather. “Yes. I’ve been working for Fen’Harel.”

“What?” From Dhaven, it’s a demand — from others, it’s the shock Nebel had hoped for.

“I thought he wanted the best for us, but I see now — “ With his hand buried in his hair, Nebel spits out, “I never should have listened to him.”

“You wouldn’t,” someone says, and oh, that hurts. Of course one of the few who still held faith in him stayed through all of that chaos, waiting for an explanation to absolve their hero. Nebel now gets the privilege of seeing the moment that trust dies.

Choking up his voice is effortless. He’s more surprised to find that there’s a wealth of tears that have been lying in wait for his permission to fill his eyes. “I called them here. I started the fire. I wanted all of you to feel that same rage I always did. To want to burn down the rest of this world,” he says. The shock he sees is what he wants, but it only makes it harder to swallow. “Ir abelas.”

“You’re lying!” Dhaven yells. “If that’s true, then — then why didn’t he acknowledge you when he showed up?”

Nebel looks at him with raised brows, like the reasonable question is actually ridiculous. “Why would he want to be associated with me? He knew that I’d divide you.”

Some of the shock fades from his onlookers. Good. Understanding is beginning to sink in. But not in everyone, and especially not in the headache that is Dhaven.

“Ma harel. You’re trying to cover up for the Chantry’s misdoings,” the headache says. And unfortunately, his words take root. Nebel sees furtive glances and whispers pick up in the crowd and thinks fast of how to stave them off.

“Oh, the Chantry has plenty of misdoings. I would know. Up until I joined him, I was serving them, after all,” Nebel says. “The Herald of their religion? Not the best poster image for Fen’Harel’s cause, of course.”

But it’s not enough. An apprentice steps forward, weight heavy on her staff. “I don’t believe it. Fen’Harel … he came to me last night. My lungs — I’ve had this disease since I was a child. And he fixed them. He healed me. I don’t think he’d do this.”

Nebel wants to tear Solas’s lungs apart. The manipulative bastard. Furtive glances and whispers pick up around him — after all, what’s more likely? The Chantry’s pet trying to run from his misdeeds by pinning them on a god — the same god who’s apparently made a whole slew of offers of mercy and healing — or that pet somehow secretly doing that god’s evil bidding? And Solas had shown such interest and affection for the Dalish; if he wants to recruit them, why would he try to wipe them out? From an outside perspective, Nebel knows what he’d think: the traitorous Inquisitor has seen the guillotine hanging over his neck and has chosen to pin the blame on a culprit who isn’t even around to refute it.

Nebel tries a different tactic. “Think about it. Why would I have Bull scare off the templars if I was still working for the Chantry?”

“Because your plan had already fallen apart. You were told to kill those templars, weren’t you? To stand up to them, to look like a hero — to doom us all.” Dhaven points at the unconscious templar. “But did those two know that? Or were they unaware they were to be sacrificed?”

The problem with Dhaven’s argument is that it’s believable. The Chantry has done far worse — and that’s only the incidents they know about. There are plenty of tragedies Solas could point to as reason to join him; the only point of manufacturing this one was his precious poetic timing.

Dhaven continues his conspiracy. “So they gave you away. And you scraped the plan — anything to get away alive. I’ve seen you. You’re vicious; you’ll do anything to save your own skin. Look at my damn eye.”

Nebel wants to scream: _look at my entire body, I’m a walking corpse over here thanks to you_. He says instead: “You tried to kill me.”

“I tried to _stop_ this. But I can humor you: why would you _scare off_ those templars if Fen’Harel asked you to send for them?”

“Because I wanted out!” Nebel shouts. The forest goes quiet, save for the rain. “I fell into his trap. I thought we were saving the world — but we’re killing it. I don’t want to keep hurting you all like this.”

Nebel heaves a breath. Despite his best efforts, he can’t seem to get his tears to fall. To the shell-shocked elves, he whispers, “But he needs me. I have connections no one else does. The Anchor gave me power that’s irreplaceable.” Nebel tears at his hair; an upsettingly large chunk falls out. “And now I can’t escape.”

If Bull were here, he’d berate Nebel for all his tells. But Nebel doesn’t hide them; he plays them up. To these people, his shifty eyes, his inward feet, and the fact that he’s almost picked the skin around his nails clean off should all point towards guilt.

“No, that’s not right,” someone says. Nebel rolls his eyes over to see Taelaran, the lovely Keeper of Ghilanna’s clan who’s swapped his red earrings for mourning gray. “Fen’Harel said it’s voluntary, that if we join we can leave as we please.”

And isn’t _that_ some bullshit.

“You deserve death. That’s the only thing you want to run from. And you’ll betray anyone to do it.” Dhaven crosses his arms like he’s won this argument, ignorant of that fact that neither side holds the truth. “Prove I’m wrong.”

Nebel can. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to.

“I’m sorry. I regret it all, every single thing. I only wanted to help,” Nebel says, licking away the sweat beads on his lip. He counts it lucky that it was Dhaven’s left eye he’d gouged out, as the man pays no notice to Nebel’s hand shifting from his thigh to his belt. “Fen’Harel, I beg of you, please — let me go.”

If the anger and hurt in front of him are any preview of how the Dalish will remember him, then Nebel will need to remember to run whenever he glimpses the sails of an aravel. That’s alright. What matters is that they now know the truth of Solas and his violence, and that knowledge will keep them safe. After all, who would possibly be unwell enough to run off and join a cult that wouldn’t hesitate to bring such misfortune on their own clan?

Any person that cruel would have no place among the People.

Nebel is grateful for the experience of a single Arlathvhen, even if he can hear Keeper Deshanna in his ear scolding him about spending the whole time moping.

It’s a gamble. He really, really hopes that it works.

“Please, forgive me.”

He unsheathes his dagger, and in the instant before he strikes, he sees the horror in Dhaven’s eye at the realization that he has no time to stop it.

Nebel plunges the knife into his own neck and collapses in a tangle of limbs and blood.

Everything but the pain feels distant. The man over him is red, from his hair to his chest, and then he’s gone, leaving only the sky and trees that are beginning to look like black ink running together on a page soiled by rain. Blood and smoke and nothing else fill his lungs, and _oh_ , he longs for air. He vaguely feels someone screaming, a sound that’s cold on his skin, and hears a shrill hand pressed against his neck.

And then, from a place not so distant at all, he hears —

_“Kadan!”_

* * *

Solas is already waiting in Fenris’s dream when he arrives.

“Hello,” the intruder says, back leaned against a tree, eyes fixed on the ocean-blue butterfly that’s perched on his index finger.

It’s Seheron, undoubtedly. Fenris has never been anywhere else where Fade-green moss covers every rock and branch, or where vines hang across trees like veins connecting arteries. Fog swallows the ferns that droop in air so humid that breathing feels like drinking.

“Why do I ever still expect to have privacy in my own dreams?” Fenris asks. The dirt squelches as he steps out of the stream he’d landed in and wipes his bare toes on the endless blanket of moss.

He’s had this dream plenty of times. A Fog Warrior should be standing in Solas’s place, teaching Fenris the mechanisms of a trap pit, drawing diagrams in the dirt when their shared vocabulary fails. His companion will pass him fruit, brighter than any he’d seen in Tevinter, and Fenris will take a bite, and the juice will trail down his neck, and then — then, Fenris will push the warrior into the pit himself. His sword will be in his hand, and, as always, reality will stake its claim over his dreams.

But instead, he’s here with Solas, watching the man lift a butterfly closer to a flower and somehow keeping the white fur on his coat perfectly clean no matter how much muddy water the stream throws at it. Fenris encourages it to throw even more.

“Do not worry. This may well be our last visit together,” Solas says.

Huh. Fenris doesn’t know why Solas would give up on him now, but that can only be good news. The butterfly hovers around a tree strung with red flowers Fenris knows smell surprisingly like rot, and then it finds its way to Fenris’s shoulder. It flaps its wings, once, and then a shock knocks the breath out of him.

All at once, he remembers.

“Ah, there we are,” Solas says. “Yes, it was a pleasant surprise to hear you’d put so much trust into a mage. I only wish it had been someone with the capacity to pull off what she attempts.”

Fenris is also surprised at himself, though he wouldn’t call the feeling pleasant. Merrill very well may be killing him at the moment. He may wake to find a demon in control of his heart, or perhaps it will be his mind corrupted to the point that he’ll need yet another name and identity to replace the one lost.

He might not trust Merrill to succeed. But he trusts that Merrill won’t let Hawke befall any harm; he trusts that she’ll strike Fenris down if need be; he trusts that her failure will have been an accident. And despite Solas’s warnings, hope still settles in his chest like the flutter of paper-thin wings, and he finds himself believing that he’ll wake once again.

Solas stares at him like he’s noticed a parasite slowly eating away at Fenris’s face. “I’m sorry to say that we don’t have long.”

“I know.”

Solas frowns with nauseating pity. “And you carry no qualms about that? After so long spent fighting for your freedom?”

“It’s better than the alternative.”

“I can still heal you.”

“You were the alternative I spoke of,” Fenris says. Solas’s face sours. “But I still expect you to honor our deal.”

“You’ve been quite clear you’d rather keep die than allow me to expunge your tattoos.”

“Not mine.” Fenris pauses. “Shielan’s.”

“Shielan?” Solas frowns, confused. “Ah, yes. The runaway. What an interesting request.”

“I fulfilled my side of the bargain.”

“You did, yes. And if that is to her wishes, I will oblige.”

Fenris expected more of a fight. He folds his arms across his chest. “And you won’t say another word to her,” he warns.

“No, I don’t plan to. She has an arduous enough journey ahead.” Solas presses a finger to his bottom lip, and he nods twice to himself, like someone’s whispering an interesting proposal in his ear. “But I may stop for tea with her new traveling companion. As arrogant as she may be, I admire her resourcefulness,” he says, and even this muggy air feels dry and cold under Solas’s grin. “Her hunger for knowledge only serves to make bargaining easier.”

“Don’t you dare!”

Fenris lunges, but a hand on his shoulder stops him. As Solas smirks with an amusement that deserves to be wiped into the spiny briars below, Fenris turns to see who else has dared to invade his dreams.

There’s no one there. But the weight he feels, warm and heavy on his tired shoulders, is unmistakably real — as real as anything here can be. It shifts, and then he feels a more pinpoint pressure rubbing circles over his collarbone, growing gentler each time it climbs over his bones.

When he looks back to Solas, the man is scowling. Fenris doesn’t know if Solas can somehow see the invisible fingers on his shoulder, but for some reason, he looks like a wedge has been driven under his skin. His long face appears both exasperated and exhausted as he back his shoulders and clasps his hands behind his back.

“Forgive me,” Solas says as dark wisps of light begin to encircle him. “I will return momentarily.”

As soon as the last pale finger disappears into the darkness, Fenris slaps a hand down on his shoulder. It hits nothing but his own flesh, the feeling as numbed as everything else in this realm. But then he hears it: a sound bubbling up from the stream, muffled and distant like someone is speaking underwater.

_Hang in there, Fen. You’re doing great._

So Fenris inhales, holding in the breath of strangely scentless air for a moment, knowing well this may be his only chance. And then he unleashes it in a furious yell, as loud as he can, hoping to be heard by any other soul in this world.


	21. Chapter 21

The Chargers don't take vacation. The excursion to the rented cottage is a trip solely for business, Bull says. They just happen to not have any contracts that week, and it _also_ happens to be right by a pristine lake with a great view of the mountains.

It had seemed as good a time as any.

Krem’s back twists over the top rail of his chair the second that Nebel’s foot falls on the creaking wood of the cottage. “Hey, Rebel. You're up before dinner!” Krem sidles over to join Stitches on his side of the table, leaving his spot as a wide-open invitation.

Nebel attempts a smile as he crosses the floorboards, but he hovers behind the empty seat as he looks at each corner of the room. “Bull's not here, right?”

“Yeah, Chief went out hunting.” Krem winks. “Said he wanted to make you a nice meal, or something.”

“Oh.” Nebel's nails dig into the wood of the chair. He doesn’t want to think of Bull coming back with some giant creature slung over his shoulder, not right now. Krem keeps eyeing his wrist like he’s trying once again to measure the distance between skin and cloth — Nebel’s shirt thankfully hangs over his belt, where he’d punched yet another hole that morning — so at last Nebel sinks down into the chair and tucks his hand away into his lap.

Stitches looks up after plucking one last bud off a stem. “Doing alright there? You're looking a little green.”

“Yeah,” Nebel says, but his throat constricts when he even thinks of saying more. The bed calls to him, warm and dark and silent. A little alcohol could probably grant him the sleep he’d expected, setting him free him from this awful waiting that’s already given the regrets enough space to settle in. And he wants to run, so badly — but it turns out he’s not ready, not yet.

So he says, licking his dry lips, “Hey, Stitches. Do you have any wintergrass?”

“Wintergrass? Er, yeah, I should. Somewhere around here.”

Nebel nods. Stitches’ scissors snip once, twice, then he moves on to the next plant. Fuck. There isn’t time for this, and there’s no good way to explain that. Nebel squeezes his fist under the table and ignores how that makes Krem’s eyebrows lift. “Would you mind getting it?”

“Now? Um — alright.”

“What's wintergrass?” Krem asks while Stitches heads to the corner where his supply bag has been deposited in a heap with all the others.

“An herb,” Stitches says over the clangs and dings of vials bumping against each other.

“No shit,” Krem calls out.

“Tastes a little like mint. Well, if you took mint and dunked it in a vat of rotting meat.” Stitches comes back and drops the bundle of herbs on the table in front of Nebel before returning to his own plants and scissors.

The green bundle is tied together with twine, knotted so loosely that it would surely fall off if someone held the stems upright. _Shit_. It’s only two sprigs. Maybe there’s more in the woods? No, not this far south. Nebel could still let this happen, it would save him this trouble — no, no. Maybe in a few months, when spring comes. Bull doesn’t need another reason to hate winter.

“Huh,” Krem remarks as he leans in to get a whiff. “Making soap or something, Rebel?”

“Something like that,” he says. Two sprigs would be enough for soap. “Is this all you have?”

“Er, yeah,” Stitches says with one raised eyebrow.

Krem asks, “How much soap are you planning on making? You know half the Chargers don’t even use it.”

Nebel doesn’t respond. The world has started to spin, and all he can see is that measly bit of wintergrass that’s surely not going to be enough to counter the shrub’s worth of spadeleaf already coursing through him.

Stitches's scissors slide open, a stem poised between the blades, and then he stops. Stitches looks down at the untouched herbs on the table and then traces his gaze slowly up from the bundle into Nebel’s own eyes. He knows. If Krem doesn’t already, he will soon.

And later, so will Bull, and then there will be no more running.

As the first of many stomach pains hits, Stitches snaps the blade shut. “Nebel. What the fuck did you do?”

* * *

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Bull.

No. No, no, _no_ — Bull shouldn’t see him like this, too weak to move, too shocked to speak, gasping on the ground while some stranger uselessly attempts to apply magic and pressure to a wound that is bound to bleed out within a minute.

Bull isn’t the one he’s waiting for.

“Breathe. Come on. Hang in there.”

He _can’t_. There isn’t any air; there’s only pain and a darkness that seems not only to spread but to grow deeper, like looking into an abyss where every second the bottom pulls farther and farther away. Magic flows into him, but it feels like nothing more than a drip of lukewarm water on his chest.

“ _Vashedan_. Why are you just standing there?”

Because there’s nothing any of them can do other than bear witness to the last moments of a fool’s final mistake. Death’s cold fingers don’t feel any more welcoming with a baffled audience to see him off.

“Kadan. You fucking — you _promised_.”

And then Bull is there, over him, the only thing he can see in his tunnel of sight, and _fenhedis_ , he never wants to hear Bull’s voice crack like that again. Bull’s eye blurs into something more white than gray, and all Nebel gets when he tries to reach for it is a twitch of his knuckles.

Bull yells something again, and Nebel wants to tell him not to be angry — it’s okay that he doesn’t know what to do. Bull was never going to be able to save him. Every second pulls him further from the warmth of Bull’s hands on his neck, and he wants to tell Bull it’s pointless, that he doesn’t need to watch this, that — 

_I meant to keep our promise._

_I thought I had this figured out._

_I love you, more than I ever thought I could._

“I’ve never met a mortal with such an undying death-wish.”

The relief numbs the pain in his lungs for only as long as the shine of light lasts. Solas stands over him, a blur of white and green that shifts with every shuddering breath.

“I doubt I’ll ever understand your choice in partner, Iron Bull.”

Oh, he’s annoyed. The satisfaction of that makes Nebel laugh, though what reaches his ears is more of a gargle.

“Stop talking,” Bull demands. “Fix this.”

The mage who’d been trying their very best is gone now. But beyond the sound of Nebel’s own ragged inhales, he can’t hear any whispers or screams or any other signs that the three of them aren’t now alone.

Solas’s eyes scan the area as if he’s surveying the swamps of the mire, then he points somewhere to the left. “That one’s not dead yet, correct?”

Bull disappears. A second later, there’s the all-too-familiar sound of a corpse being dragged over the ground. Except that it isn’t a corpse — the only possibility is that templar, his life spared by the dull end of Bull’s axe.

Well, not spared for long. There’s a guttural yelp as Solas’s fingertips light up in yellow, and then those fingers are on Nebel’s chin, twisting it to the side so that void of agony on his neck is exposed to the sky. The worlds turns shades darker. Solas is nowhere near as gentle as he used to be, when he’d mend the magic of the Anchor with sympathy in every movement.

Chills spread from Nebel’s neck to the feet and fingers he’d almost forgotten were there. He opens his eyes to dark gray particles floating above him like a belt of stars traveling across the sky. They flow into him, warm as they brush his neck but cold by the time they reach his limbs. 

“You’re gonna poison him with that blood,” Bull says.

“Do not belittle me. I am cleansing it.”

Whether the blood still carries lyrium or not, it still gives Nebel a feeling similar to the disquieted unease of being watched when there should be no one around. It crawls within him, an itch he has no hope of scratching. It’s still better than the sting of the air on the inner flesh of his neck.

Color comes back to the world. Through the swirling mist of red, Solas’s face is furrowed with more frustration than concentration, and Nebel smirks as he watches the amulet swing from his neck. Light bounces off the turquoise gem embedded in that oddly ornate silver setting — the same hue and design that Nebel had seen in his last waking moments in the cave. The Solas that had come to him there had seemed to be a fever dream, a vision his dying mind had conjured from a memory. Nebel had been convinced of that, as Solas had certainly assumed he would be, right up until he’d seen that amulet emerging from a coat of halla fur.

_You cannot die just yet_.

The “yet” is still to come, thankfully.

His odds had been good, he’d figured, but Bull’s going to be pissed if he ever learns they hadn’t been _great_. Fully expecting no response from the screaming muscles in his neck, Nebel attempts to loll his head to the side and is surprised to find his ear hitting the dirt and his sore eyes landing on Bull.

“He’s moving,” Bull says with that rare expression of shock that Nebel usually delights in catching him in.

Solas clicks his tongue. “I do wish he wouldn’t. Do you know how many times I had to go heal him in that cave after he kept undoing my work?”

Bull doesn’t look pissed, at least not yet. But with every shift in the light and involuntary twitch in Nebel’s neck, his face cycles through pain, fear, hope, concern — never once going blank.

Nebel attempts to smile at him. Bull returns it, crooked and forced, as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a red cloth that he wipes across Nebel’s face, from the corner of his mouth down to his jaw. It comes away a darker, more familiar shade of red.

“You’re doin’ great,” Bull says, leaning in close, and Nebel grins wider and wetter at the ridiculous idea that he’s doing anything at all.

There’s no pause in the pain as Solas finishes. The only sign he’s done is his weary sigh as he re-straightens his spine. The lights fades until all that’s left are two shining orbs around Solas’ hands, white as clouds after a storm has cleared the sky. Nebel can’t look away from them, even as Solas says, “It’s impossible to account for the way you think, because you simply never do.” When the last of the magic disperses, his palms are sparkling clean.

“He never worked for me, and he never will,” Solas says to people Nebel can’t see. Oh, good. At least a few people stuck around who will be able to go spread the “truth” of who caused the downfall of the Arlathvhen. He hopes they aren’t scarred by seeing a knife in a neck, but if they haven’t left the scene by now, they’re probably just as fucked-up as he is. “But it would be a shame to let him die in my name.”

It’s a rushed attempt to talk his way out of this lie, not up to Solas’s usual caliber. What luck, to apparently pull him away from something important. Nebel couldn’t have asked for better timing.

The muscles in his hand spasm as another wave of cold surges through his arm. It hurts, in its own way, but it’s also enough of a relief from the pain in his neck for him to lunge out and snatch the hem of Solas’s coat.

He’s not going to let another chance slip away.

Solas raises a brow and looks at Nebel’s fingers like they’re a burr caught in the cloth. Nebel lets him shrug the hem away without a fight. He’s got what he wanted: Solas’s undivided attention.

Last time, he’d let Solas walk away through that mirror, leaving Nebel in a seething mess of pain. The darkness is closing in quick, but it will not silence him again.

“Don’t — “ Nebel chokes out, grinning through the coughing fit, not taking his eyes off Solas’s unamused face. “Fuck with — “ He takes one last gasping breath, knowing it’s his last for now. “The Dalish,” he spits, spraying blood across Solas’s face a second before it disappears.

* * *

“Oh. You’re dying.”

The gathering of butterflies and small, bright frogs scatter as Solas rematerializes in a green flash of light. Fenris scowls as he stands from the dirt. “What are you talking about?”

“You do not have long, it seems.”

Solas reaches out like he may dare touch Fenris, and it doesn’t matter if this is a dream or not — that’s not happening. “No,” Fenris says, shaking his head back and forth as he steps back between two trees. “Merrill should be done soon, I should be waking up — “ His foot catches on a slick patch and he trips, staying standing only by a frantic grasp for one of the many hanging vines. He pulls himself upright, trusting these Seheron vines to hold his weight, and he looks up to see —

His fingers are gone. And though he can feel the vine between them, it’s a prickling ghost of a sensation, like his hand has been under pressure for hours. All that’s left is a palm and a mist that grows thinner and looser by the second.

“Waking up from the Fade is immediate,” Solas says. “But look at yourself. Little by little, you’re disappearing.”

Fenris looks down. His left foot is in a similar state, the ankle already being eaten away by this process.

Solas whispers, “I hope that it does not hurt.”

“I’m … going to die?” The words catch in Fenris’s throat more naturally than he’d imagined they would.

“Yes. I will stay with you through it, if that would bring you peace,” Solas says. “I do not wish upon you the pain of going alone.”

“Aren’t you busy trying to build your cult?”

“The best plans are the ones we can set in motion and ignore. And we all need moments to breathe.” The forest around them loses color as Solas shuts his eyes. “Here. Is this to your liking?”

Fenris smells salt and seaweed, then blinks, and they’re in Kirkwall. From the roof of Fenris’s mansion, he looks down over the street where faceless people run about their errands, dragging their carts full of fruits and grains over bumpy stone roads. The sky is a cloudless, blue expanse that runs into the sea on the horizon. For as many hours as Fenris spent up here, he can only remember a handful of times that the sky was clear enough that he could make out sails and ships dotting the waves to the south.

Solas sits, a stain on the view. He doesn’t belong here, so out of place in his snow-white furs and his neatly folded legs. Fenris sits beside him anyways. He has work to do.

“I don’t understand you. Why have your agent push Lavellan?” Fenris asks. “If all you wanted was him dead, I can think of a hundred easier ways.”

Solas’s lips twitch up. “I did no such thing. I don’t work with people so volatile.”

“You’re lying. How else would you have ensured Lavellan and I would fight? That’s how you planned on getting me to lecture the Dalish, wasn’t it?”

“There was no need to expend any effort there. With the two of you, it was bound to happen.”

Fenris’s tongue stings from the full force of his jaw. The tiles of the roof are already visible through his forearm. He doesn’t have long left and he’ll be damned if he can’t hold it together for a few minutes. “Dhaven’s knife, then?”

“Ah. Yes, I will admit to that. What else could I do, when you were holding your temper together so well? It was simply a nudge towards the road I needed you to walk.” Solas tilts his head down, the light smirk shifting into a pained frown. “I apologize for any distress you may have experienced. I did not wish this ending on you.”

_I’ve already told you to stop with the apologies_ , Fenris thinks but does not say. He exhales the thought as hot air instead. “But you still failed. All this and not a single new cultist.”

One of Solas’s eyebrows twitches. So there’s the sore spot. These elven “gods” truly are just like any other mage: smug, prideful and more afraid of being publicly accused of failure than the act of failing itself. Like pressing a thumb into a bruise, Fenris continues, “Perhaps the Dalish legends are correct, for once. This Fen’Harel character won one war, only to let down everyone he fought for. Who’s to say that won’t happen again?”

Fenris has no idea what the Dalish legends entail, but it’s enough to get Solas clasping his hands behind his back and the wind blowing hard enough that it sends a loose tile falling to the street.

“No,” Solas says. “But I do need to thank you for blessing me with my newest recruit. She’d been on the precipice for nearly a year. She will bring many a friend with her.”

That’s something, but not enough, and Fenris is beginning to have trouble telling where he begins and ends. He needs to keep pushing. “I doubt it. There’s no convincing these people of anything.”

“I would not be so sure. Even you were convinced by her words, after all.”

And there it is.

“They’re going to stop you,” Fenris says.

“Who? Lavellan?” With closed eyes and a hint of a smile, Solas shakes his head like Fenris has told a particularly absurd joke. No, maybe it won’t be Lavellan, or Fenris, or even Hawke, but as it turns out, Solas isn’t so infallible after all. There may be hope for the world yet.

Fenris raises the arm he can no longer feel the tips of, turning over what’s left of it. The forearm is gone, the elbow a brown and silver mist. One by one, each particle disappears, as if the stolen by the sun that so rarely made an appearance here in Kirkwall.

“Tell me,” Solas says, “do you have any last messages you need passed along?”

A man ambles past the mansion, a mop of brown hair falling over his ears and an oversized sword attached to his back. He reaches the end of the street, presses his hands to his hips, then spins and walks back the way he came. This dream must be from those three years, back when Fenris would lose count of the number of times he’d watch Hawke pace the street, never coming to his door — and Fenris never once coming down from his roof.

“No,” Fenris says, when the pacing man has stopped to kick stones into a gutter. “I won’t make things worse for him.”

Solas nods and stands, perfectly balanced even on the jagged tiles, all thanks to his feet hovering an inch above them. “Rest well, child. May you find peace.” He turns his face to the sun, sniffing once, then frowning. The next moment, the salty scent of the nearby sea is gone, replaced with the clean, unnatural smell of some flower. Bastard. “It’s a shame. You and I could have brought harmony to this world, had you only given me the chance.”

It’s easy to imagine giving those floating ankles a swift kick. The whistle of a body falling from the roof; the clatter of bones against the paved street. Perhaps he could summon a carriage to run by and finish the job.

But there’s still business to take care of, no matter how much joy that sight would bring.

“Remember your part of the deal,” Fenris says, swallowing down the lumps of distrust and hatred in his throat. “No matter how this ends up. You will spare Hawke.”

The man on the street has found a stick from Maker-knows-where and is poking at something in the gutter, squatting in the street without a care for who he sees him.

“Alas,” Solas says. “I am quite tired of minding the lives of other people who have no desire to do so for themselves.”

Fenris goes cold. He jumps to his feet, thankful that they’ll still hold him upright, and stares at a face that dares to smile.

“And remember, that was a separate bargain,” Solas continues. “One that you, unfortunately, did not fulfill.”

“Go _fuck_ yourself.”

Fenris swings the arm that remains, and Solas disappears with no flames, clouds, or other needless showmanship to accompany the exit. The sky thunders and lightning cracks as rain descends upon the city — and that’s more like the Kirkwall he remembers. Fenris is left alone, water landing on some limbs and falling through the others, and he grins at the split-second memory of wide eyes and the satisfying crunch of his fist against a cheek.

Fenris jumps from the roof, landing in a crouch only feet behind the man below. This Hawke spins around, hands flying to his sword, always ready for an ambush even on a stroll through Hightown, but he lowers them as his face shifts into equal parts happiness and confusion. “You came down,” he says.

Fenris steps closer until his transparent arms can wrap around Hawke’s waist and his head can burrow against his chest. After a moment long enough for the rain to drench them both, Hawke’s hands come to slowly, gently, hesitantly rest on his back, and Fenris whispers through a smile, “May as well.”

* * *

Nebel tries and fails to crack open his eyes. Whoever owns the arms that Nebel has woken up in apparently hasn’t bothered to wipe the blood from his face, as he can’t seem to peel his eyelashes from where they’ve been sealed to his cheeks. His arm is pressed between his side and a chest he’s almost certain he knows.

“Bull?”

“Yeah,” the body rumbles out.

“I can’t open my eyes.”

Nebel only realizes they’d been walking when he feels the jolt of a stop and the stutter of Bull’s breath. But then Bull laughs, and Nebel hears the familiar sound of him licking a finger before finally Bull wipes his eyelashes clean.

He blinks open his eyes, and the world is far too bright, but he’s glad to see it.

“Oh, good,” he says to Bull, who looks pale but uninjured, thankfully. “I was half-scared it was gonna be Solas stealing me away.”

“He wants you alive. But maybe not alive _around_ him.”

Nebel smiles. That’s preferable for them both. The only times he’d found Solas’s lectures interesting were when he was high, and the only time Solas had found him “tolerable” was when he’d been sober.

In the middle of fantasizing about the day-long high he’s going to treat himself to very, very soon, Bull’s fingers start to fiddle with the hanging hem of his shirt. And then Bull says, quiet but grave, “Don’t do that again.”

Nebel doesn’t know how the Qunari swear an oath, and he doubts Bull would be entertained with the suggestion of a blood pact, so he just whispers, “I won’t,” and trusts that a former Ben-Hassrath will have no trouble telling if that’s a lie.

Bull nods, so Nebel leaves it at that. He rolls his head to the side to get his bearings. They’re walking down what may have once been a path but is now just a narrow gap in the underbrush that will likely be grown over within a year. The rain has stopped, but Bull is still taking careful steps down the sloped, muddy ground.

“Where are we going?” Nebel asks, hoping he can stay like this until their destination.

“We’re getting the hell out of here,” Bull says. “The Dalish aren’t too pleased with us. The Dread Wolf burned down their artifacts and sold them out to the Chantry. And apparently, we’re workin’ for him now.”

“Oh.” If there’s a sudden frown on his face, it’s only because he’s just stabbed himself. He got what he wanted in the end. There’s no reason to be disappointed.

Bull squeezes his shoulder, and when Nebel looks up, he’s waggling his brows. “But hey, good news: I got what you asked for.”

Nebel’s body must be as weightless as it feels, as Bull effortlessly shifts it over to a single arm. Bull digs around in a pocket with his free hand and pulls out a bundle of cloth that’s the same unmistakable red of the Templar Order’s robes. With a proud grin, he passes it to Nebel and lets him open the gift.

Swaddled within the folds of velvet is a limp, bloody tongue.

Nebel laughs, louder than is comfortable, and tucks his head against Bull’s chest. “That’s my Bull,” he whispers.

“Gonna keep it?”

“Fuck no,” Nebel says, giving the severed muscle one last look before he flings it behind him, leaving it as prey to the woods. It will be of more use to a hungry bear than it will in that damn templar’s mouth.

* * *

When Fenris wakes, breathing air as damp as the dark crags of stone above him, he mourns the hearing he never expected to lose. A drop of condensation falls from one of the many stalactites onto his neck, the water cold and green from the algae-coated walls it’s crawled across. It makes no sound. The world follows suit.

Until the coughing starts.

“Fen!” Cold fingers squeeze Fenris’s palm. The coughs wrack his body in an unrelenting rhythm, forcing shut his eyes, but oh, how glad he is to hear that voice. “Are you alright?”

When the coughs subside enough for him to open his eyes, the world is twisting. Merrill is holding out a canteen, her bottom lip swelling from the teeth that still bite into it. No matter how his throat spasms at the thought of relief, Fenris forces himself to refuse the offer. There’s no telling who may be watching.

“Say something, come on.” There are tears still trailing down Hawke’s cheeks, catching in the curls of his beard, thrown off as he breaks into a stiff grin. “Look!” He lifts their entangled hands, holding them above Fenris’s face even as his freshly bandaged arm tremors. “See?” The cave is narrowing by the second, and Fenris is remiss to look anywhere but Hawke’s eyes, but he turns his head to their hands, and then he can’t ignore the tightness in his throat any longer.

Black.

Tendrils as dark as the night run up his hand and arm. What was once silver and meticulous now has branches, as if the ink has burst from the lines that kept it caged. The markings bend and coil in strokes messier than the originals ever dared to be, looking more like the veins they lay over than any piece of art.

“She did it, Fen.”

Merrill doesn’t look proud. Her eyes dart around, a popped vessel in the right one, watchful of his vitals. If she heard Hawke, she has no reaction.

Fenris snatches her wrist. She blinks, once, twice, her chin bobbing as if woken from the sleep that’s surely coming for them both soon. She finally focuses on Fenris, and there’s no words in any of the languages he knows to express the gratitude he feels, but that’s no excuse not to try.

He mouths _thank you_ , and she reveals a hint of a smile, settling her hand over his own.

And then there’s Hawke. There’s always Hawke, rendering him speechless at every turn, a beacon of light he keeps expecting to burn out or find some better shore to make its home. The seams of Fenris’s shirt dig into his back as Hawke clenches the fabric in both hands, pressing his face to his sternum, shoulders shaking in a way Fenris would give anything to ease away.

“You’re gonna be alright,” Hawke says into his chest, and oh, he is, but there isn’t the space or the time or the privacy to say that.

So instead he whispers, “Live well, Hawke. For me,” and feels his consciousness lose another few footholds.

Silence has always been a hum, strings plucked in melodies so sluggish that they would take a lifetime to hear the entirety of. But the song is gone now, and all that’s left is the wind exploring the cave, the blood in his ears, and Hawke’s choked breaths muffled against his chest, without any of the usual orchestration to bind it all together.

He lays a hand on Hawke’s head, marveling at how soft his hairs can be even under a coating of dirt, and Hawke looks up at him, watery eyes the same color as late autumn leaves barely hanging to their branches, and somehow, despite it all, he smiles and —

* * *

Something is being dragged over stone.

The swing between consciousness and sleep pauses on the less pleasant side, where the heat of Nebel’s neck is still pressed in the crook of Bull’s arm and his legs are swaying. It’s getting closer, the _shk shk clang_ of metal crawling over anything that ends up in its path — and, failing that, slicing it in two.

Nebel’s ankles bounce together as Bull comes to a sudden stop. He mutters something in Qunlat, and Nebel doesn’t need to understand to know that the harsh sound is a curse. Against Bull’s protesting fingers on his forehead that try to hold him as he is, Nebel twists his head and sees, climbing the path they’re descending —

“Hawke?”

The man jumps to a crouch, sword held across his bloodied and tear-streaked face, as if caught in an ambush and bracing for a flurry of blows. Each breath lands as fog on the blade, but for a second the steel reflects unfocused eyes, caught on a distant point further than the trees would allow them to see.

“Don’t come near me,” Hawke says. The hilt trembles in his gauntlets. A dozen cuts run up each of his arms, criss-crossed and encrusted in bits of earth and stone.

“We won’t,” Nebel says, like he may coax a wolf into lowering its hackles. And he knows — from the twisting in his stomach, from Hawke’s heavy breaths, from Bull’s warm hand that comes to envelop his own — but he needs to ask anyway. “Where’s Fenris?”

Hawke’s eyes lift to the sky, so glassy that Nebel isn’t sure he’s seeing him or Bull at all. And under the clutter of his sword falling to the ground, Hawke answers in a crack of a whisper:

“He’s dead.”


	22. Chapter 22

They heal.

Bull says the scar on his neck is gonna be a nice one — _like a sunburst_. Nebel had ground oak leaves and embrium root into a paste and pressed it into Bull’s shoulder with a whispered threat to the skin if it dares to leave a scar. Bull’s old wounds make him look distinguished, rugged — handsome, even — but Nebel’s knives don’t need to be responsible for adding any to the collection.

Alone, Nebel walks up the hill leading from the lake to the plateau that holds Montsimmard and the remnants of the Arlathvhen. There’s a path, but he doesn’t dare come close to it. He knows that the Dalish have been making great use of the footholds Merrill carved into the cliff; unfortunately, he doesn’t have that option. His legs ache as he pushes through waist-high brush and shrubs, and while the early morning sun hasn’t yet chased off the chill in the air, he’s still drenched in sweat within an hour.

People regroup. He stays silent and pressed against trees as clans separated by the chaos find each other on the path, and he hears relief in the sounds of people patting each other down for injuries and smoothing leaves out of hair. He also hears plans: some people will leave, eager to return home. With the location of the real Arlathvhen revealed and tensions too high for comfort, it’s best to get on the road before the shem’len get any more ideas in their heads.

But others stay, salvaging what they can. There’s a clutter of wagon wheels as two elves cart some of the supplies that had been left behind down to the lake below. Nebel gathers from their conversation that a couple apprentices are down there, doing their best to distribute people’s lost belongings — or sending them along with Keepers from the same area, in the case of those who have already left. It’s their eighth run with the wagon, apparently. They worked through the night, _apparently_. And oh, the need to help is like rashvine against Nebel’s skin. He holds his breath to stop himself from volunteering.

He stops to rest in the hollow of a rotten tree, gulping down water that he didn’t quite get the taste of the lake boiled out of. Now there’s a group of three elves climbing on the path, and he’d like to let them get ahead of him. His injured body is losing its stealth; he’d nearly tripped on a winding root a few minutes ago, and no Dalish hunter worth their salt would ignore a noise like that.

The elves sing as they pass, a slow and solemn tune, their voices in a hushed, imperfect harmony. He recognizes it as a hymn of mourning, a prayer to the Creators to wash the dead’s spirits in river water and young spring seeds. He hears Ghilanna’s name in between the Elvhen words, and he wonders if these are from her elves clan or if they also just feel a sting of grief for the death of someone so young, acquainted or not. The melody fades, and there are whispers before they begin again, repeating the same song with breathier voices.

Nebel stands and leaves when he hears Fenris’s name sung.

Another hour, and he reaches the boulder — the same one he’d brought Bull to as he’d smoked after the whole Evanuris speech. He finds himself here again for the same reasons: it’s simply the highest point around. He climbs onto the stone, quite a bit easier now that he’s sober, and he mentally scolds his stomach until it settles. He’s not going to let that asshole Dhaven give him a fear of heights. He stretches out on the moss and looks to the east. Somebody needs to keep watch for templars coming from Montsimmard, and it might as well be him.

An hour passes. He waits. No one comes. The templars must be preoccupied with plans and reports of the sudden Qunari attack in the woods of Montsimmard, of all places. Was it a Tal-Vashoth gone mad? A declaration of war? A random act of violence from a rogue Ben-Hassrath? No; just a big, sweet idiot willing to do anything for a much smaller and stupider one.

He lets his eyes drift west.

The ceremony grounds are coming apart, one tent at a time. People carry what they can: a drum on their back, a brick from the kiln tied in a bundle of tent canvas around their waists, lengths of rope hung from their necks. The gong is carried away on a cart, wrapped in bedrolls so as to not make any more sound than necessary. But tucked away in a grove of trees, there are cooking pots — covered by canopies to disperse their smoke into soft, wide clouds instead of pillars — and there, people take moments of pause, bowls held between hands that must be exhausted. He’s glad to see it.

He watches the road leading into the forest for another half hour, then gives up. There’s no attack coming. He’s just looking for an excuse to keep busy. But for a moment, he allows himself to relax into the rock, sinking his sore body into the ridge where its surface dips. Only for a moment. He’ll get up soon.

With his eyes shut, he swears he can make out the scent of charred cabbage and hare. When they’re open, all he smells is the aftermath of rain.

It’s done. They’re safe. Solas’s grand plan to expand his network into the Dalish has been foiled. Maybe the People know the truth of the Evanuris, but they’ll recover, together.

He should feel happy.

He stares up at the clouds, dark shapes crawling across the otherwise blue sky. There’s still one more trouble to face, in the form of a certain man he’d slipped away from in the early hours of dawn. He’d left a note saying to meet him up here — _at the rock you said looked like an ass_ — and when he comes, this will really be over.

He knows what he wants. But wanting Bull doesn’t erase what he’s done, nor does it make it any easier to reconcile the two worlds they come from. It will be better for Bull, too; he’s made for a life of adventure, not watching over someone who can barely keep himself alive.

The sound of footsteps is first a relief — a distraction from his thoughts — and then a reason to panic. He ducks down in the ridge between the rocks. Had he been followed? If he’s lucky, it’ll be a templar. He can talk his way out of that fight, no problem. Trying to keep an elf from attacking Fen’Harel’s “agent” won’t be so easy.

“Lavellan?”

_Fenhedis_. Okay, there’s no guarantee he’s been seen. If he just stays flat and doesn’t breathe, maybe they’ll pass by without —

“You up here?”

_Wait_. That voice —

Nebel lifts his head. “Hawke.”

Hawke greets him with a nod, as if this were an appointment they’d set up long ago. He looks somehow worse than he had when they’d escaped the Fade. Nebel meets his eyes after climbing down from the rock, but it’s like looking into a window fogged up with steam. Hawke’s every movement is sluggish, from his boot digging at the dirt to the slow blinks of his eyelids. Above all, he looks hollow.

“People keep apologizing to me,” Hawke says, his tone unnervingly flat. “Turns out I didn’t start the fire after all.”

Good; word is spreading. With the blame squarely on Nebel’s shoulders, Hawke can safely cross paths with the Dalish again.

“They’re saying the Inquisitor’s deranged. Luring the templars out here, committing arson. Serving the trickster god. All sorts of fun things.”

“Did you deny it?” Nebel asks.

“No.”

_Smart_ , Nebel thinks, doing his best to ignore the way Hawke’s words settle like brambles in his stomach. That pain will go away eventually. Keeping the Dalish from Solas is bigger than himself, more important than his own welcome into their world.

“Anyways. Got another favor to ask.” Hawke combs a hand through his dirt-caked hair, and Nebel glimpses a row of freshly healed wounds on his arm, the skin swollen and red. “You have any more of those potions you gave Shielan?”

“The ones … oh. The stuff I gave you for your back?” If Hawke is asking for more, they must have done something to help. Merrill can’t be in a state to be healing anyone — Creators, he can’t imagine what she’s feeling right now. Nebel fishes for the orange vials in his bag.

“No. Not those.” Hawke looks reluctant to say more, tugging at the bags under his eyes and looking around at everything but Nebel. Finally, quietly, he explains, “I keep dreaming of him.”

“Oh.” Nebel freezes. Right. Hawke’s injuries are the least of what’s ailing him. “Yes, of course.” He pulls out the one remaining vial of _era’ael’somni dir’vhen’an_ — the promise of dreamless sleep — and passes it to Hawke. “I can make more if you need.”

“That’d be great.”

Nebel shouldn’t feel as relieved as he does, but it’s like an itch scratched. Finally, _something_ to do. Some way he can be helpful. Hawke makes to leave, just as quickly as he’d came.

“Wait,” Nebel says. Hawke stops. “How did you know I’d be here?”

Hawke’s gaze softens.

“You two are similar,” he says, and even though the two of them are the only people around, Nebel yet again feels like he’s intruding on something private. Hawke’s eyes trail up the boulder. “He was always climbing.”

Sorrow finds a grip around Nebel’s throat and squeezes. The same feeling had came and went the whole of the night before as he and Bull had laid in a hiding spot between two fallen trees. If Fenris were here, he’d surely be scowling and throwing out some cold remark about Nebel daring to feel even a hint of grief at his expense. Nebel swears he can hear him now, a whisper in the dark recesses of his mind usually reserved for the well:

_We asked for your help._

“I’m sorry,” Nebel whispers.

Hawke shifts a shoulder in what could maybe be called a shrug, and really, that’s more of a response than Nebel expected. In the days following the Wycome massacre, when the few closest to him kept offering _I’m sorry_ ’s and empty favors and prayers, all he could manage was a blank stare. Eventually he’d figured out _thank you, I’m fine_. And finally, like a weight lifted, the condolences had stopped.

Hawke looks out over the woods like a commander surveying a battlefield. “Tell me if you get a whiff of that wolf,” he says, throwing a listless wave over his shoulder. “I’ve got a couple plans for him.”

* * *

He wakes to the sun and Bull in front of it, watching him with a smile that’s like the first sips of a cup of tea made sweet with halla milk. Bull’s body looks to have had hours to convince itself that the hard surface of the stone is actually comfortable, and somehow, it’s succeeded. Bull looks absolutely serene as he watches over Nebel, silent and serene. Truthfully, Nebel catches Bull watching him sleep quite often, though he usually pretends he hasn’t woken up yet; he has countless memories of a hand sweeping away his hair in the middle of the night, a blanket shifting to cover his un-sleeved half-arm, a half-lidded gray eye in the pale oranges of dawn.

He wonders if Bull knows, maybe, that this will be his last chance to do so.

“Did I really fall asleep?” Nebel mutters mostly to himself, wiping crust from the sunburnt skin around his eyes.

“Mm. You did.”

Ah, well. At least no one seems to have passed by, or if they did, they couldn’t see his body on top of the rock. He’s small enough that someone could easily miss him, unlike —

“Shit, Bull, someone’s gonna see you up here!” he hisses as he grabs Bull by a horn and tries to pull him down to lie flat against the boulder.

“They won’t,” Bull says, resisting with that same peaceful, unconcerned, easy smile back on his face. Nebel tugs again, and eventually they reach a silent compromise — Bull laying on his side, chin resting on his propped up hand, the tip of his horn grazing the moss of the stone.

“Stubborn,” Nebel scolds.

“Can’t see you when I’m on my back.”

Nebel looks away, willing his cheeks not to turn pink. Stupid Bull. No, that’s not fair, _he’s_ the one being stupid. There’s a conversation they need to have, one that feels like it’s rearranging Nebel’s intestines as he thinks of it, but now Bull is staring at him again, and does Bull know how lovely his eye looks in the sun? Does he realize how breathtaking he is, the morning light bathing him in a soft glow and casting shadows across all the perfect angles of his face?

“Bull,” he says, licking his lips, ready to start this, ready to end this. But then Bull is looking at him with a patient smile, and Nebel is saying nothing, no matter how ready he tells himself he is.

Bull speaks before Nebel finds the courage to. “I’m sorry. About Fenris, you know.”

“It’s not like I knew him any more than you did.”

Bull rests his palm open between the two of them, an invitation that Nebel doesn’t take. “You wanted to be his friend.”

Now, Nebel’s face goes fully red. “I never said that.”

“Yeah, but I know you.”

Maybe Bull’s right, as he is so frustratingly often. Fenris was an asshole, but there was something about him — his frankness, how protective he was over Hawke and Merrill, the way he’d experienced so much pain and still walked away screaming and swinging — and that one decent conversation they’d had over a shared drink had given him hope for more in the future. Preferably a pipe instead of a bottle, though. Or maybe not, considering Hawke had felt the need to hide his own smoking from the man.

“Poor Hawke,” Nebel says, thinking of those healing cuts and dull eyes. “Can you imagine?”

“Yes.”

Bull’s gaze falls on Nebel like a mound of snow dropping from a tree. _Oh_. Nebel looks down, his eyes stinging. He stopped keeping track of his near-death experiences after the fall of Haven, but he’s sure this week hasn’t been good for the number. He wants to apologize, suddenly, for being such a walking death-wish, but he stops himself. Bull has always favored actions over apologies, and there’s no action he can take here other than breathing and eating and not shoving more knives into his neck.

The sun crosses the center of the sky. Somewhere down the hill, a rabbit squeals, likely about to be added to that stewing pot Nebel had seen earlier. A raven flies above, alone, its wings carried by the wind. Nebel tells himself it’s all signs, that the world is whispering that the time has come to say goodbye.

But yet again, Bull speaks first. “Listen. Even if you don’t wanna … uh, well — if we’re done.” He looks suddenly bashful, his eye glancing up and away as his hand comes to scratch at his neck. “You’re still welcome with the Chargers. For as long as you’d like.” His eye drifts back to Nebel, his face softened. “They love you, you know.”

“About that,” he whispers, swallowing down his heart.

A voice comes from below, young but low. “Nebel?”

He freezes. Bull pauses for a second, then a smile breaks out over his face. Nebel tries and fails to stop him from rolling over and poking his head out over the edge of the boulder.

“Mar! Good to see you’re still around,” he calls. The woman laughs. Nebel slides over and peers down the rock, and sure enough, there’s Marelwyn, looking just as ragged as every other elf he’s seen today.

When she sees him, she coughs and waves. “Ah, sorry to interrupt you two. Got a minute?”

Nebel bites his lip. As glad as he is for the diversion, she _is_ still Dalish, and they are still in hiding. She’s unarmed, it seems, but that doesn’t mean she’s alone.

“How’d you find us?” he asks.

First Hawke, now her. She points at the ground, where the mud has been imprinted with two sets of footprints, the ones on the right nearly double in size of those on the left. Nebel curses himself for being so careless. “Been a while since you hunted, huh?” Marelwyn asks with a smirk.

Bull climbs down the rock first, and Nebel follows his lead. Bull seems to read something in the air that Nebel doesn’t, as Bull looks between the two of them and then makes a big show of stretching. “Alright, you two have fun. I’m gonna go scrounge up some food.” The split second of a wince he gives when his shoulder lifts prompts Nebel to reach into his bag and pull out another healing potion. He’ll be damned if the stab wound he inflicted gives Bull any lasting trouble.

“Bull.” Nebel tosses the vial. Bull catches it with a fist. He gives a half-smile when he opens his palm and sees that orange glint.

“You’re invited too, Mar. Can’t promise it’ll be much better than leaf soup though.”

“Thanks, Bull,” she says.

The summit gets uncomfortably quiet once Bull’s footsteps have blended with the rest of the forest’s sounds. Nebel lets out a cough, then regrets how that feels on his sore throat. He resists the urge to keep a hand on his dagger. Nothing says more about someone’s character than their ability to earn Bull’s trust, and apparently she’s earned enough of it that Bull doesn’t even hesitate to leave the two of them alone. “So, did you need something?”

There’s conflict in her expression, some struggle that ends with her tilting her head back and sighing. “I figured someone should apologize on behalf of the Hiralyn.” She adds, with a grumble, “Creators knows Dhaven won’t.”

Nebel stares at her, the words not quite making sense, and then — _Wait_. Oh, fuck. “You’re from his clan?”

“He’s my father.” She looks at him like she’s baffled that he didn’t know that all along.

“Oh. I see.” Should he be apologizing? No, _he_ was the one pushed off a cliff. But as far as she knows, Dhaven was right in the end; Nebel truly is an agent sent to plant seeds of doubt in the Dalish, even if he’s serving a different master. Well … shit. He’s stuck.

She chuckles. “Relax. We may share blood, but I still know an asshole when I see one. So, sorry. We’ll try our best not to attempt to murder you again, alright? Or frame you for treason.”

“So … you know I wasn’t the one to write the templars, then?”

“‘Course you didn’t.” Once again, she raises her eyebrows at his ignorance. “And yeah, yeah, I get it. You want the People to think you’re working for Fen’Harel. Make them hate you, and they’ll hate him by association. Suck up all the hate like a rag, right?”

It sounds like a terrible plan when he hears it aloud, but so did many of the Inquisition’s greatest schemes. “Think it will work?”

She snorts, and Nebel is struck by a sudden desire to start writing to Sera again. “I have no idea. But like I said: you don’t have to worry about anyone from my clan ratting you out again.”

_That’s … fine_ , he supposes. She’s not going to be the only one to figure out his game; after all, his acting is mediocre at best, and there’s bound to be people that see the flimsiness of the whole _“the Dread Wolf doesn’t publicly want to be associated with the controversial Inquisitor”_ excuse. Some of them will join Solas anyways, but as long as he doesn’t walk out of here with an army, Nebel will consider that a victory.

Nebel bites his lip as an unanswered question comes back to him, a stain on this “victory.” He’s probably not going to have the chance to ask Dhaven, after all. “Back then, he said your clan _got_ _my lesson_ long ago,” he starts, dread settling into his stomach as he recalls those words. “Do you know what he meant?”

“Mmm. I do.” She pauses. “You really want to know?”

With a response like that, he’s not so sure anymore. He nods anyway.

“Alright. Let’s take a walk.”

They amble down the hill — east, farther from the ceremony grounds, parallel to the road leading to the city. Nebel warns her that he doesn’t want anyone seeing him, nor does he want her to be seen with him, and she laughs and asks if he really thinks any elves will be heading anywhere near Montsimmard today. And then she’s quiet, her attention focused on gently moving aside the plants blocking their way with the minimal amount of disturbance to their branches and roots. In many ways, she really is like Sera, but Nebel could never imagine the city elf showing such care to avoid destroying a spider’s web. Sera’s interest in flora started and ended with which ones were safe to use as bathroom paper.

Marelwyn stops at a thicket of crystal grace, where she slices away three of its blooms and drops them in her pocket. And then she begins, looking straight ahead with a distant expression as she speaks. “Years ago, our clan was thriving. We’d lived in the Emprise for decades. We knew how to survive its seasons,” she starts. “Not like our neighbors. One year they’d be fine — the next, they’d be thin and desperate. Amazing how their lives could change based on the state of trade in some distant nation.”

Considering Nebel knows he’s going to be involved in this story, he can assume she’s talking about the one town in the Emprise that the Inquisitor visited first-hand.

“Sahrnia,” he mumbles.

She nods. The dread in him spreads to his head, and he hears blood pounding in his ears. “We settled outside the town for a winter. A little trade couldn’t hurt, right? Now, if you asked my father, he’d say we did it cause of the stories going around. You know — better treatment from the shems these days, all because of the Inquisitor.”

Marelwyn’s shrug and eye roll cushion the blow of her words, but Nebel can’t help but wonder: is that just to spare his own feelings? Would she still be mocking her father’s mantra with any other audience? There’s no good way to ask.

“I don’t like many of the stories about me,” he says instead.

Something on the ground catches Marelwyn’s attention again. She squats down and parts the leaves of a shrub, revealing an empty hunting trap. “I’m sure you don’t,” she says as her fingers deftly disengage it. “No. Our mistake was in trusting their leader. Poulin.”

He’s glad Marelwyn’s back is to him as the name tugs at an old tangle in his stomach. Oh, he remembers Poulin well. Of all the judgments he’d reluctantly given, hers had sat the strangest with him. Varric had told him afterwards that he’d done the right thing, choosing restoration over revenge. The town had been rebuilt using her ill-gained wealth. The survivors had flourished. The Inquisition had been gifted supplies in gratitude. So why had it felt so wrong?

“When she was arrested, we heard she’d confessed to selling her villagers to the quarry, knowing eventually they’d be taken anyways. Not a total lie.” Marelwyn brushes away leaves and dirt from the trap, then tucks it into her salvage bag as she stands. She turns to him. Her face holds a tense veneer of calm, the sort of look someone practices to hide a timeworn pain. “I’m guessing she never mentioned the Dalish clan she sold first.”

_No, she hadn’t._

But that can’t be right. He would have known; there’s no possible way that he could have missed that. He can’t do anything but shake his head.

She nods, her mouth set in a bitter sneer that Nebel has already seen on her father. “She didn’t think twice about giving away our location.”

“Why didn’t I see them? I was there, I sorted through the bodies — “

“The hardest jobs don’t leave behind a corpse.”

He shuts his eyes, the roots and leaves of the world suddenly coiling into spirals. How could he call himself a leader when he missed this? How could he call himself Dalish when a whole clan could be killed and swept away under his watch? He remembers the quarry, the crushed and broken bodies, the infections of red lyrium coursing through skin, each body clearly human, and he can’t let himself think of the fate of the bodies that weren’t.

“I don’t blame you for that. But my father did.” Marelwyn has stopped walking as well as the calm in her voice falters. “After Poulin returned to the town, he wouldn’t let it go. He wouldn’t ever shut up about protecting the rest of the People from you, showing them your lies and all that.”

Nebel forces himself to open his eyes and meet her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“How can you not blame me?”

Her answer comes after a long, tense pause. “I trust that you did what you could.”

No, the little bit he’d done isn’t nearly enough, and he struggles to think of what he can do now. Poulin’s wealth that they’d claimed and redistributed must be long since used up. If he’d known, he would have sent most of it to the clan — no, that’s a lie. If he’d known, Poulin would have never again walked out of Skyhold.

“If there’s anything I can do to help your clan rebuild — “

She dismisses him with a wave. “We’ll be alright,” she says as her wave becomes a gesture to keep walking with her. “You’ve got plenty of your own rebuilding to do, don’t you?”

She veers north, and he follows. The woods grow thick as they walk in a crescent that must mirror the cliffside’s shape, though they never come close enough to see the open air of it.

She may be right, in a way. Not in his clan, certainly. Not the Inquisition either; he’s long done with any sort of politics. Looking inward is scarier, like opening the door to a storehouse of strewn-about parts that look like they’ll never again reach working order. But maybe, at the end of all this — when he’s found a place to settle on his own — he could spare a little time to sorting through that wreckage.

The idea gives him more anxiety than comfort, but he’s distracted by the strain building in his lungs. He wipes sweat from his brow. Marelwyn’s pace has quickened with her silence, and Nebel’s still-healing body aches from the exertion. “Mind if we slow down?”

Marelwyn’s steps falter, and she’s quick to nod. She must not have realized he’s not completely recovered; after all, it’s unlikely she’s ever spent too long away from a mage and therefore easy access to healing. But there’s no mage around he’s been able to burden with this, and his own potions can only do so much.

When they’re surely somewhere north of Montsimmard, Nebel decides that he can’t go on. The walk back is going to exhaust him, and he needs all the energy he can scrape together to deal with this conversation with Bull. But Marelwyn seems to have a destination in mind, walking with a quiet, resigned purpose.

“Sorry, where are we going? I really can’t go much longer,” he says, catching his breath.

“Not far,” she says, looking forward for a path between all these trees. “I promised my clan I’d bring back some deep mushrooms, and there’s a cave up ahead where they grow. I could use your help gathering them.”

Well, he can’t say no to that. Not when there’s any possible chance for him to help her clan, even if it’s something as minor as helping gather and carry some mushrooms. The thought of being useful to her clan actually revitalizes him, if just enough to bear the walk a bit longer.

Sure enough, they soon come to a hill — the only land around that’s barren of trees. Around the back of it, the grass gives way to an outcrop of rocks, likely a few feet taller than Bull’s head would reach, and nearly twice as long as the span of his horns. A slim slab of rock covers what could be an entrance, and Marelwyn seems sure that it is one as she places her hands on the edge of it and tries fruitlessly to pull its weight.

“Lend me a hand?” she asks, and he joins her, pressing his back up against the stone and using the force of his legs to push. It slides to the side, finally, scraping against the walls of the cave, and he keels over, coughing. It’s too much. He’s going to need a walking stick to get back to Bull at this point. But she walks ahead of him into the darkness, and he takes one last gasping breath before joining her. The idea of sitting in a cave and harvesting mushrooms actually sounds quite appealing. He should be fine again by the time they’re done.

The cave is lit in faint hues of greens and yellows and reds. But deep mushrooms glow because of their proximity to lyrium, right? The colors give Nebel pause, though Marelwyn strides over the moist dirt with no concern. Nebel looks to the alcove to his left where all the light seems to emanate from.

He sees a mirror stretching to the ceiling, its surface shimmering in the iridescent colors of the Crossroads, an exact replica of every eluvian he’s ever stepped through.

He races to the exit, scrambling limb over limb to get out of this darkness and back to the grass, where he can run or hide, or scream for someone’s attention. His extended fingertips reach the warmth of the sunlight, and then he stops. He doesn’t want to. Something is in his veins, forcing his muscles to move as it pleases. He watches in horror as his hand pulls back into the darkness and his fingers curl around the hilt of his dagger. The sound of metal unsheathing has his heart pounding, and the light of the mirror looks impossibly bright as more and more blood rushes down into these uncontrollable limbs, and then he feels the knife press against his right shoulder. His elbow complains at the strange angle it’s been forced into. He turns to Marelwyn of his own volition.

“Don’t resist,” she says, her voice indifferent and her face blank. “He needs you alive. He doesn’t need your other arm.”

He didn’t think she was a mage, let alone one capable of blood magic. The surface of the mirror shudders as her fingernails dip into it. “We’ll both be safe there. He’s promised,” she whispers. “When we’re there, remind me of that, yes?”

How predictable of Solas to always need the last word. Nebel almost regrets getting him this pissed off.

“Let me go,” he demands through grit teeth, the movement of his tongue and jaw feeling like he’s straining against chains. His fingers draw the knife closer despite his efforts to loosen them, and the blade’s edge presses a dent in his sleeve. Any closer and he’ll draw blood. He gathers every last bit of strength, and into that well of energy he throws all the anger and hatred for Solas that’s built over the last year. and he channels it all into his wrist as he attempts to wrench the knife away from his shoulder. He stays completely still.

And then he realizes, heart sinking, that he’s taking a step closer to the mirror. He watches his boot land on dirt in both the real world and its distorted reflection, and he tries to scream, but —

He’s in a grove of oaks, a city behind him, an aravel rising above him. The ship’s sails flutter in the wind, the white insignia of the Lavellan clan curling over the red cloth that welcomes him home with eager waves.

The pack on his back is heavy, loaded down all the supplies he’d been sent with for his mission to the Conclave, as well as the additional weight of as many gifts as he could carry back with him. He slides it off his shoulders with a sigh of relief. The long journey is finally over.

He hears a gasp to his left, and he turns, and there she is, exactly as he’d left her months ago.

“Keeper,” he breathes.

“Da’len. You made it back.”

He can’t tell if she’s surprised, but the joy and relief are obvious in the curves of her uneven, toothy smile. She shuffles over to him, leaning more weight than he remembers on her carved walking stick. “Come here,” she says, and he meets her halfway. He finds himself suddenly wrapped him in a tight embrace that’s over too soon, his chin resting on her head for only a second before she pulls away. “Let me look at you.”

She does, holding him there as her eyes scan his body for answers as to how his trip went, preferring that to asking questions that she must know he’ll brush off. Her small hand wraps entirely around his wrist, and he sees the judgment and concern on her face as he hears the unspoken disapproval of how much he’s been eating recently. He knows he’s going to end up dragged over to the campfire later, his bowl filled and refilled until she’s satisfied and he’s far beyond that point. At the moment, he can’t remember why he’s so thin, or why he only has one wrist to offer her. A battle, he presumes. A fever. It’s of no concern. He’s back here, home, and the journey has been long and all he wants to do is sleep. He’ll find a hammock to rest in, somewhere close to the fire, and he’ll eat plucked pine nuts from the drooping branches until the softly sung melodies of home lull him to sleep.

Keeper Deshanna tells him of what he’s missed. Linnarel has received her vallaslin, the mark of Sylaise. Second Enasa finally mastered the magic of storms after a few unfortunate incidents with misaimed bolts. His mother and father are in good health, and he laughs when Deshanna says she’s finally gotten the couple to begrudgingly accept the responsibility of raising a few chickens.

But the journey has been long, though he can’t remember if that means days or weeks or months, and he lets his attention drift and allows the words to wash over him like a lullaby. Twilight has turned the sky into a brilliant gray, the last hues of orange becoming a hazy purple as the cicadas begin to wake. He could get lost in that gray, laying here until the end of time, watching clouds pass over its infinite shades. It’s gorgeous. It’s peaceful. It makes him want to cry.

_That’s not right_ , he thinks as he stares into the sky, his throat clenching with unshed tears. The breeze blows softly on the back of his neck, bringing the scent of herbs and meat and home. There’s a melody being sung behind him. All of it calls to him, coaxing him to look away, but he can’t tear his eyes from that expanse of gray, no matter how much the sight wrenches at his heart.

It’s Bull that comes first, a memory of a shining gray eye, and then the rest floods him. The Inquisition, Wycome, and the year after it all. Grief follows the memories like a shadow, grief for this world that he now knows isn’t real, grief for the fact that maybe it could have been.

This Deshanna may be born of himself, a creation melded together from the raw clay of his memories, but he still feels the need to apologize to her. He should have been there. He should have stopped the massacre himself; he shouldn’t have trusted his advisors to handle it.

But he opens his mouth to do so, and she interrupts. “What’s this?” Her attention is narrowed in on the tooth hanging around his neck. He doesn’t remember putting it on. She lifts it between two fingers. “Half of a whole, I see.”

“In many ways,” he retorts, grinning. Half a necklace, half his arms, half his ears. It’s a wonder he’s still got both legs. Keeper Deshanna returns his sly smile, as he knew she would. She always held a secret fondness for darker jokes.

“So, has my little rebel finally settled down?”

As usual, he can’t keep anything from her. Maybe it’s because this strange world allows her to know all that he does, but Nebel suspects the real Deshanna would understand the necklace’s symbolism just as quickly. Nebel’s never been one to collect trophies from his hunts.

Her fingers slide off the tooth and it falls back to his chest with a _thump_.

“I love him,” he whispers. “I don’t think I should.”

She laughs, a sound like a morning filled with birds taking flight and halla lapping up the fresh dew. “You’ve never done what you should. Why start now?”

For a second, Deshanna cups her palms around the necklace like she would the hand of a visitor, offering greetings and blessings on behalf of the Lavellan. Then, one hand lifts even higher.

“If he wants to treat you well, allow him to. And if he does not, send him to me.” The backs of her fingers caress Nebel’s cheek, slow and tender against the skin. “You are allowed happiness.”

Her hand forms a cup against his jaw, and he leans into her touch. A shiver runs through him, like she’s found a piece of him left lost and forgotten in the cold and taken it into her hands, blowing warm breaths to melt away the frost.

“Ma serannas, Keeper,” he whispers, and he leans in further, his hair falling in a dark curtain over his eyes.

When he sweeps it away, he’s in a cave, staring down a wavering version of himself in a glowing golden mirror. His foot is warm, warmer than it should be in this place, and he realizes in terror that it’s already halfway through the eluvian.

He draws it back, and oh, oh he’s never been more thankful to see his body move as he wills it. He sets his foot down softly, hoping the movement doesn’t draw any attention. He keeps the knife pressed against his shoulder. Marelwyn doesn’t seem to notice anything has changed, her mouth still set in an expressionless line, her eyes crossing slightly as the light of the mirror dances across her dark, large pupils.

It isn’t her.

So he doesn’t thrust the dagger into her, as he’d thought about a moment ago. Instead, he brings the hilt between his teeth, clenching the blade there at the same time that he grabs the edge of the mirror and tugs, side-stepping out of its way as it slams into the ground. It falls an inch from Marelwyn; she’s unfazed. The cave goes dark. The sunlight casts only enough light to see outlines and shadows of movements, but the back of the eluvian looks just the same as the one had at Skyhold with its golden coils forged in the shapes of snakes and vines that criss-cross across the frame. There’s no discernible pattern to it, so he searches with his eyes and hand for a gap in the metal. _There_. In the bottom left corner, between a cluster of thorns and the hissing mouth of a snake, he catches a glimpse of a sliver of glass — real glass, not this glistening portal into another world. Glass that can be shattered.

He jams his dagger’s hilt into the slot between the coils, and never before has the sound of something cracking given him such relief. The halo of light around the mirror’s edge fades. His shoulders fall from his ears. They’re safe, at least from that threat. He looks to Marelwyn for a reaction.

“Pester someone else, da’len,” she whispers, head lolling a few degrees forward.

He should run. He has enough energy left to find a hiding spot where he can recover the rest before he returns to Bull. But instead he sits back, keeping his knife close in case of the worst, and he waits. Whoever set this up wants Marelwyn through that mirror as well. And until she’s free of this spell, he’s not going to leave her.

He doesn’t need to wait long. After a minute, she mumbles something, her shoulder twitching, and then she’s fallen to her knees with a hand pressed to her forehead.

Nebel rushes to her side. “Are you hurt?”

She looks up, dazed. There’s a flash of relief on her face when she turns to the cave entrance and its hazy light falls upon her eyes. There’s a world out there, and an open exit. He knows well what it’s like to wake up in a cave and see there’s no escape.

“I’m — fine,” she says, a hand reaching up to grasp her throat. He wonders if she remembers any of what she’d said, or if she’s been left only with the feeling that her voice has been used. As he helps her to her feet, he wonders what dream-like place she’d gone to in her head, though he knows they’re not familiar enough for him to ask. She pulls away from him, her form a shadow shaking in the darkness. “I need air.”

He lets her go. They’ve got plenty to sort out — she must have her own suspicions of why she’d be forced into this cave — but right now, he’s just glad to be on this side of the Veil.

“Nebel!”

Nebel’s hand tightens around his dagger on instinct. But there’s no need; he’d know that voice anywhere. He lifts his head and sure enough, Bull is there, standing in the bright arc of the cave’s mouth with a hand on the stone as he catches his breath. His eye darts around the cave, but it passes over Nebel twice without recognition.

“Bull,” Nebel calls out, rising to his feet. At last, Bull meets his gaze, and Nebel is struck with momentary guilt at how close Bull looks to crumbling from relief. He must have followed them, and Nebel smiles at himself for ever thinking he wouldn’t. Bull can’t have been in earshot though, since one or both of them would have certainly heard his heavy footsteps if he had been. Marelwyn, probably.

Nebel meets him a few feet from the entrance, standing half in light and half in shadow, knowing Bull’s eye would struggle with the inner depths of this cave.

“Can you stop scaring me like this for maybe, I don’t know, a single day?” Bull’s gaze softens as it trails up and down Nebel’s body. “Are you okay?”

“I am. I’m alright,” Nebel says, and something begins to burn in his chest, a heat that has him pawing at his shirt. “But, I’d … Bull, I think — “

Bull rests a stable hand on his shoulder. “Hey. Take a breath. Tell me what you need.”

When Nebel looks up at Bull, he knows not just what he needs, but what he _wants_. It’s not going to be perfect. It might be more than he deserves. It might not work out, in the end. But he sees a future, one with a possibility of happiness, and an empty space in it that he could fit into if he’d just take that first step forward.

So he does, and then he takes another, until his feet are only inches from Bull’s and he can see the sweat glistening on Bull’s forehead and the scars across his chest and he finds his voice more steady than he ever thought it could be when he says —

“I’d like to kiss you.”

Surprise flickers over Bull’s features, before he settles into a lopsided smile. “Do it, then.”

Nebel jerks him down by the horn, a strain that’s worth it for the tiny gasp of hot air against his lips just before he presses them into Bull’s. Nebel keeps the moment more chaste than he’d intended; but it feels right, their lips grazing each other rather than crushing — a promise and a prelude to so much more later, not a plea for it all right now. Bull kisses back with the same soft, restrained energy, but then his fingertips come to stroke the edge of Nebel’s jaw, and _oh, fuck it_. Nebel gives in to pushing deeper, to parting his lips and feeling his heart skip at least one beat when Bull’s tongue takes the invitation. He refuses to let go of Bull’s horn even when it has him rising to the very tips of his toes, and he pours everything he has to say into the strength of his touch — _I love you, I want you, I’ve missed you._

Nebel pulls away only once he senses Bull running out of breath and he’s satisfied that Bull’s gotten the message. He reluctantly frees Bull from his grip, thankful to the sun for offering him the sight of Bull’s darkened ears as Bull straightens his spine.

“Alright, well,” Bull says, pressing the back of his hand to his lips. “We’re gonna need to find a wagon. Merrill doesn’t have the arms to lug this around without one.”

Nebel snorts. “Just don’t tell her I broke it.”

There’s a giddy smile that Bull can’t seem to hide under his attempt at casual nonchalance, and it only grows when Nebel mirrors it, until their smiles are feeding into each other like two flames closing over a canyon. It’s an inappropriate time to be laughing. They do anyway, and with no one around to judge, no reputations to uphold or distort, Nebel lets this moment be theirs. A moment for themselves, unseen and undisturbed, holding each other as their laughter echoes around them in the dark.

In a few hours, he’s sure he won’t feel so hysterical. There’s a war to fight and people to protect, and he’s somehow found himself wrapped up in the midst of it all yet again. But for now, he presses his cheek against Bull chest, cherishing the warmth and listening to the heart fluttering within it, and he lets himself enjoy it.

“Kadan,” Bull says as he caresses the top of Nebel’s head, his hands and voice both so much more uncertain than he ever is — the word is an experiment, a question, a plea and a proposal, all of which Nebel responds to by reaching into his pocket and pulling out the tooth he’s kept there, wrapped in its leather cord, and holds it out to Bull. Bull’s fingers are reverent as they unwind it, and the brush of his knuckles over Nebel’s scalp and ears and eventually collarbones sends shivers down Nebel’s spine. Bull smiles, looking mightily content as he lets the tooth drop, and Nebel finally stops feeling like he’s left home with only half his clothes.

“Kadan,” Bull says again, certain this time.

Nebel could sink here. Into darkness, into Bull, into the sleep that threatens to claim him at any second. He plans to do just that, but there’s one last concern to take care of.

“Are you listening, Solas?” Nebel says, turning over his shoulder to the quiet hollows of the cave, Bull’s arm around him a grounding weight that gives him unexpected strength. “You aren’t going to win this fight.”

The darkness has no response. But Nebel waits, patiently and without fear, knowing Solas isn’t going to leave the last word to him. And while it could be the sun behind them passing through a lingering cloud of smoke, Nebel swears that the perimeter of the eluvian flashes a burnished, crimson red.

* * *

Merrill had always stood out in Kirkwall, like a daffodil growing through the cracks of a cobblestone street. Everything from her dress to her tattoos, from the nebulous hand gestures to the accent that she’d never shed — it all painted the picture of someone both proud of and far from their home.

As Merrill walks into the center of an arc of Dalish elves, her steps alternating with the crunch of her staff hitting the ground, Fenris realizes she must stand out here just as much as she had meandering the streets of Kirkwall. The city still clings to her. Fenris had been a stranger to its customs too, so he notices each and every one — the way she clears her throat with clasped hands whenever she approaches a group, the way she wears her hair in the twisting braided style that had been on every woman’s head during Fenris’s time there.

Merrill coughs. The trill of a wooden flute cuts off mid-note as its player is startled out of his concentration. Another elf sets down her tools, pausing her repair on the melted sides of a filigreed birdcage. If the purpose of this gathering has been to cultivate focus, Merrill has done a spectacular job of disrupting it. Of the six elves gathered in the clearing surrounded by trees, the only one who doesn’t look to Merrill with an annoyed glance is the eldest, who sits at peak of the arc. Her eyes remain shut, her back straight and her legs crossed.

Merrill’s figure casts a shadow over the woman’s sitting form. “Might I have a word, Keeper Nydharani?”

Fenris pulls his hood tighter over his head as he watches from the branches of a tree that has already filled out with its spring leaves. Hawke should be somewhere amongst the trees on the other side of the clearing, hopefully not chewing his cheeks apart in impatience.

“Merrill of the Sabrae, was it?” Nydharani’s eyelids flutter open to narrow slits. Even her mouth moves only the minimum amount needed to form her words. “Forgive me. I am in the middle of a meditation.” Her eyes slip shut. “I will seek you out later.”

Merrill drives her staff into the dirt. The elf to Merrill’s right caps his pot bottle of ink with an aggrieved sigh. The one to her left puts down his flute and readies himself to stand, looking like a parent whose child has run up to the altar in the middle of a Chantry’s service.

“I really am terribly sorry to interrupt,” Merrill says. “But I was wondering if you happen to know where I could find Fen’Harel right about now.”

The other elves freeze, sharing glances among themselves. A sensitive topic around here, then. One elf reaches for her bow, though she doesn’t look certain who she’d even take aim at.

To anyone else, Nydharani may look unperturbed. But from Fenris’s perch, he sees the slightest pinch in her shoulder blades, the moment that elegant posture becomes rigid.

“What do you mean, lethallan?” she asks, eyes still closed.

“Oh, I forgot to say _please_ , didn’t I?” Merrill cocks her chin. “You know, the nice bald man? Goes by Solas nowadays? You two are friends, right?”

No one dares to make a sound, not until Nydharani sighs with a tight smile. “This week has been hard on us all. I suggest getting some sleep before your paranoia gets the best of you.” She gestures to the flute-elf. “You can use my tent, if you need. Einryl, would you mind — ”

“Ah! Clumsy me.” Merrill pulls her hand away from the sharp edge of her staff where jewel meets wood. A thin line of red stretches across her palm. “Can you spare me a little healing? I’ve run completely dry on mana.”

Fenris doesn’t know what Merrill intends with this ask, why Nydharani’s acceptance or refusal to heal her would make any difference in their fight. That is, unless … unless Nydharani already has a spell in progress, one she can’t let be interrupted.

Merrill needs to act. Now. Fenris vows to give her to the count of twenty before he climbs down there himself.

Nydharani sneers. “Pester someone else, da’len.”

Pride fills Fenris as Merrill points her staff straight at Nydharani’s chest and fires a bright cerulean bolt from its gem. The sound of shattering ice breaks apart any last pretenses of peace; the clearing is suddenly filled with a clamor of shouting and gasps.

A deluge of blood seeps through Nydharani’s robes, soaking her torso and surrounding her with a puddle of it. The spell must have impaled her — straight through her heart by the looks of it, and maybe her stomach too. _Fasta vass._ Merrill was supposed to give them a chance to capture her alive.

Fenris waits for Nydharani to slump. Her head bows. Dread courses through Fenris like the lyrium he so longs for in this moment. He’s never been unarmed in a battle before, not like this.

The wind picks up, making him shiver. One of the elves yells something at Merrill in Elvhen. Merrill ignores it, the gem of her staff shining with another prepped spell.

Nydharani jumps.

The wind plucks her from the ground and drops her halfway across the clearing, setting her lightly on her feet. Her staff lands in her hands a second later.

The rest of the elves rise in alarm, the sudden wind scattering their pages and rolling the flute off into the grass. Where Nydharani had sat, shards of broken ceramic now litter the ground. A whole vase, hidden beneath her robes, carrying far more blood than one person could survive losing.

“Run!” The elf with a bow shouts as she takes off, and two of the others follow her lead. The other two copy Merrill, and domed barriers soon flash into existence around all three of them.

A snake of blood coils around Nydharani, starting at the broken vase and slithering up and around her limbs before disappearing through the skin of her palms. Merrill throws fire at her; the other two mages attempt ice again. Nothing stops the process. White cracks flash over her own barrier’s surface wherever a spell hits it, but it holds strong in spite of the barrage. The last of the blood crawls into Nydharani’s hands, and then it’s gone. More and more bolts of lightning rain down around the clearing, now completely bypassing the barriers of the other elves, and Merrill keeps just barely jumping out of the way.

In the middle of a white burst of light, Merrill screams.

Hawke comes barreling out from the trees, his roar filling the courtyard, his sword already swinging.

“Stop!” Merrill yells, surrounded by scorched earth, her sleeves in tatters, but otherwise alive. “Stay back!”

But Hawke does not. Fenris groans. At best, Hawke will be Hawke and add some chaos to the situation, distracting Nydharani enough that one of the mages can find an opening. At worst —

A gust of wind nearly knocks Fenris from his perch. Its force makes his ears pound with pressure, as if he’s just raced up Sundermount. He clings to the tree’s trunk and watches through the quivering leaves as one sword and three staves all fall to the ground, rolling and clattering out of reach. Fenris bites his tongue so as not to scream as the wind snatches both Merrill and Hawke, pulling their bodies towards Nydharani as effortlessly as feathers swept up by a breeze.

Hawke does scream. Merrill is remarkably calm, her heels leaving two tracks of dirt as they attempt to dig into the grass. At the last second, Nydharani throws down her staff and pulls a knife from under her robes, and then she welcomes the two of them into her embrace, the knife pressed against Hawke’s throat and Merrill’s neck squeezed in the crook of her elbow.

Fenris sees no choice but to move. The other elves have the sense to keep their surprised glances brief at the hooded figure who slips out of the tree and skulks towards Nydharani’s back.

“I’d advise you to stop,” Nydharani says, then leans down to whisper between Hawke and Merrill’s ears. “I am allowed to kill you both.”

“And I’d advise you not to move,” Fenris says.

He cuts off her gasp by wrapping one hand around the back of her throat. The other, he presses flat against her back, which tenses in the same way all backs do when they’re about to be gouged. Fenris had always preferred to do it from the front. Nothing went better with a slaver’s heart than a face full of terror.

“Fenris!” Hawke shouts, craning his neck around despite how his throat nearly grazes the knife.

Fenris flexes his fingers until there’s indentations in Nydharani’s neck. “Let them go.”

He feels her swallow. “You’re dead,” she says.

“If you say so.”

She does not let release her captives. A stalemate, then. One that can only last another minute before she inevitably realizes why Fenris hasn’t yet disemboweled her.

Merrill’s fingers edge closer to Hawke’s sword. Fenris digs his nails into Nydharani’s back, making her breath hitch, hopefully distracting her. If Merrill can draw blood, if she can control Nydharani for even a second, they just may make it out of here with an informant in-tow.

Fenris smells smoke.

The flames start at Nydharani’s fingertips. Fenris shoves Merrill and Hawke away, and they fall on top of each other in a jumbled heap. He jumps back himself as her sleeves ignite and smokes begins to rise from Nydharani’s skirts. She faces him. Her gaze falls to the blackened, mutated tattoos across his arms, and for a second, she looks just as Merrill did on the top of that hill, furious and engulfed in flame. But then her pendant falls, its cord burned at her neck, and the fire only continues to spread from there.

This isn’t an attack.

In the words of the Fog Warriors: _better dead than taken._

“Stop her!” Hawke yells, and the three mages try, hammering her with one blue spell after another, but their magic only seems to feed the fire. With her back to the panic, Fenris is the only one to see the desperate shake of her head and the terror in her eyes. And he realizes, as he backs away from her silent plea, that they cannot make her quell a fire that she did not start.

“Was it worth it?” Fenris asks, though he expects no answer. “To serve a master who would kill you for his own shortcomings?”

He expects the rest of Solas’s cultists will suffer the same betrayal eventually.

The air reeks of burning hair and the putrid sweetness of magic. Colors flash in Nydharani’s palms, each an attempt to cast some spell that could save her — ice, rain, barriers, even the greens and purples of necromancy. But one by one they fizzle out, and she meets his eyes with a mouth open and ready to scream, and then the flames consume her.


	23. Chapter 23

Fenris develops a hatred for silence quicker than most things in his life. Hawke says that’s impressive, considering Fenris’s default opinion of people, places, and animals is disdain. Fenris rolls his eyes and asks him to hum another song, one without so many pauses.

He hadn’t realized how muted the world has always been for other people. He doesn’t miss the voices; but with the melodies gone, he feels like he’s listening to the world through ears filled with water. He’d nearly driven himself insane, trapped and alone in that cave for a day, finding relief in every howl of wind and distant chirp of a bird.

Now, leaning against rough stone cliffs and breathing the moist air of Montsimmard’s lake, he savors the noise around him like it’s a bite of warm bread spread with sweet jam.

The world is quiet. His life is not.

“Why don’t we just use a pole?” Merrill asks as she fights to keep the squirming net closed, a struggle Fenris can easily empathize with. She treads water under the looming cliff, her underclothes clinging to her back. The freckles on Hawke’s bare shoulders are beginning to blend into his freshly tanned skin, a color like the chestnuts Hawke roasts every year during Satinalia.

“Because sometimes you don’t have a pole!” Hawke shouts, grabbing the net and heaving it and the drakefish within onto the rocks, where Fenris waits with a knife at the ready. This is the second one Hawke has pulled from its underwater nest today, smaller than the last but still nearly the size of his forearm.

“But … you do. It’s right there.” Merrill points to the assorted pile of tools and canvas leaning against a tree that had once been their campsite. On top of their crossed swords and the stakes they’d used to construct the tent, a dry fishing rod sits next to a jar of bait.

Fenris squats over the drakefish, wondering what recipe Hawke must already be mentally cooking up. Probably something salty; maybe something chilled to suit the changing weather.

The fish’s tail slaps against the stone with a rhythm like a heartbeat. Fenris finds his hand has gone still, his knife hovering over the fish’s emerald scales and bulging eye. Its tail continues to thump, and he’s disturbed to find it comforting.

_The blood of Titans_ , Merrill had explained. _You were hearing its heart and thoughts and memories._

The sound fills the gaps for another few seconds before Fenris drives the blade through the fish’s head, putting an end to its floundering. He untangles the net and throws it back in the water, then dips his hand in as well to wash away the blood and grime.

Hawke gestures to the water like it’s a prize to be presented. “Your turn, Merrill!”

Seeing both the fish and Hawke’s arms flail make Fenris almost understand why he calls this activity “noodling.” He wonders how much of this is truly Ferelden culture and how much is just the Hawke family’s own idiosyncrasies.

“I’ve got one, I’ve got one!” Merrill cries, though her hand stays under the surface until she lets out a yelp and jerks backward, rubbing at her reddened arm and turning to Hawke with a disappointed frown. “Oh no, it got away. I’m sorry, Hawke.”

“No sorries!” Hawke takes her place in one of the many crevices of the cliff. “Next time you just gotta get your hand down deeper, see? Like this.”

Perched on the rocks lining the edge of the lake, Shielan watches the commotion like Fenris used to watch games of Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man during those first few years of Kirkwall — a hesitant blend of bafflement, doubt that his invitation was genuine, and a yearning for it to be so. It was always Hawke who would sidle up to Fenris’s side, making sure he had both a full drink and a hand of cards, usually with some comment about how Fenris was going to guarantee he’d be leaving with an empty coin purse.

Fenris takes a seat beside her, letting his feet hang into the lake below. She startles, then relaxes, her head bowing in greeting — a Tevinter custom, one that Fenris took forever to break. Her posture comes to mirrors his own, no longer hugging her knees to her chest and instead dipping them into the chill water as well.

“Here,” he says, handing her the last two vials of that bitter purple potion. “I hope you do not mind that we used up all of yours.”

“It’s quite alright. I offered, after all.” The glass clinks when she sets them beside her. One attempts to roll away; Fenris grabs it before it can escape into the lake. “I almost can’t believe it fooled him.”

“It was clever. You’ve done a great favor to the world,” he says as he lines the vial up with the other one. There’s a humble pride in the way Shielan shifts her weight back and forth, like she might shake off the compliment.

What had been shouts in his dreams had apparently come out as sleepy mumbles in the real world, but even that had been enough. Solas was certain Merrill was going to kill Fenris. Fenris had a line of communication open to Hawke. There was an opportunity there, however narrow it was.

Shielan had suggested pulling Fenris from his dream using Lavellan’s potions as a matter of safety, but Merrill had more devious ideas. In the midst of performing her magic, she’d told them of nights helping at Anders’s clinic, giving that remedy to unconscious patients when night terrors took them and they could not be awoken. Anders had often bemoaned how long it took to work its effects.

Fenris is certain that the effects of the potion actually look quite different from someone’s final moments within the Fade. But Solas saw what he wanted to see — a lesser mage failing, an obstinate elf succumbing to the consequences of his own pride. There was no reason to believe that any information he revealed there would ever escape the dreamy streets of Kirkwall. And oh, how Fenris hated Solas’s stupid pity, but how satisfying it was to use it against him. Fenris had known he was either going to live to see Solas brought down, or die knowing he’d spat in his face one last time.

A dead agent was a decent result. But Fenris narrows his eyes at the blisters on Hawke’s back and anger boils at the fact that they did not have a chance to do any worse to Nydharani.

Unfortunately, those dreams with Solas had done little for Fenris’s well-being. After spending the entire ritual on-alert, Fenris had been desperate for sleep. And he didn’t need Solas or any of his cultists wandering into the dreams of an allegedly dead man, not before any of them had a chance to confront the Keeper. Lavellan doesn’t need to know that Fenris owes him a debt for the day’s worth of undisturbed sleep, though it’s likely the man has figured out by now the truth of why Hawke sought him out for more potions.

“Thank you for your help,” Fenris says to Shielan. “Truly.”

“You’ve more than repaid me,” Shielan says, lifting her fingertips to run over her cheekbones, where deep green tattoos bend into sharp angles.

“You choose to keep them.”

“A different design should be enough, right?” It’s true; he hadn’t recognized her at first without the right side of her face almost completely blue. She shrugs. “I don’t know that I’ll ever see my clan again. I’d like to feel like they’re still with me.”

From the timing of it, Solas had still thought Fenris dead when he’d visited her. Fenris doubts he would have kept his promise otherwise. Fenris runs a hand through his hair and coughs, the sound reverberating through his chest as he finds himself feeling unexpectedly awkward. “How would you like to exchange letters in the future? I know our experiences are not exactly the same, but …”

“Yes!” she says, then folds her hands in her lap. “If you don’t mind. I would love that.”

“Me too.”

Fenris looks up as a wall of water surges around Merrill and Hawke, then crashes back down in a circle around them. Hawke is cackling as he supports Merrill’s elbow, lifted high in the air and engulfed by a drakefish.

“Oh!” Merrill’s arm looks tiny in comparison to the fish, but she sinks it back into the water within seconds. “Poor little fish. You can go back to your home now. Sorry to disturb.”

Hawke gives her a congratulatory slap on the back. “That’s gonna be one confused fish,” he laughs, leaving Merrill to scrub the slime off her arm as he swims over to Fenris and Shielan. Still fully-clothed, Shielan slides into the lake with barely a ripple, gliding over to join Merrill by the cliff-face. Fenris doesn’t fault her for her discomfort around Hawke. It’s unlikely she’s ever had a decent interaction with a human.

Hawke doesn’t pay any mind to her impromptu exit. His face is flushed and cheeky as he rests his elbows on Fenris’s knees, his chest rising out of the water while his kicking legs make soft waves around Fenris’s feet. Fenris sweeps the wet hair that clings to Hawke’s brow back behind his ear.

“You need a haircut,” he chides. “I can hardly see your eyes.”

Hawke responds by leaning more weight on Fenris’s legs, threatening to pull him into the lake as well. Fenris holds strong, and Hawke lets up when Fenris reaches down to splash a handful of water across his face.

“How’re you doing?” Hawke asks, and Fenris hears the concern even through the toothy grin.

“I doubt I’ll ever get used to the quiet,” Fenris says. He nods over at the two women sharing a laugh at the bite marks on Merrill’s elbow. “But this helps.”

Hawke beams. Fenris expects him to pull away, returning back to the fish, but instead Hawke shifts closer, folding his arms over Fenris’s thighs and resting his cheek on Fenris’s knees. He mutters, “You know, I really don’t like pretending you’re dead.”

Fenris lays a hand on Hawke’s head, tracing his thumb over the edge of his ear. “I much prefer being alive as well.”

“How’d Lavellan react?”

“Like I’d crawled out of Fade,” Fenris replies. “Iron Bull didn’t look too surprised.”

According to Hawke, Merrill would likely be in some Chantry dungeon right now if not for Iron Bull and Lavellan’s intervention. Fenris thinks it’s pretty typical that he’d fall asleep and wake up to the three of them wanted yet again by the Chantry. Nothing new there. But the Inquisitor and his partner have apparently become enemies of the Dalish, which … seems uniquely unpleasant.

So Fenris had gone to the campsite those two had abandoned and gathered their belongings, and, taking a winding route to ensure he hadn’t been followed, found them sleeping in the dirt, right where Hawke had said they’d be.

Lavellan’s shock and delight had made Fenris more uncomfortable than flattered. It’s unfair, he thinks, that Lavellan had the privilege of being unconscious when he’d been found in that cave. Lavellan hadn’t needed to figure out the proper reaction to a tense acquaintance’s overblown relief at his survival. For lack of any better response, Fenris had settled on accepting the offered cup of tea — they’d insisted, considering he’d been the one to recover their cooking pot — and giving them a summary of the scheme that had led up to Nydharani’s eventual death.

At the end of it all, Lavellan had sat there with some sort of dawning horror. And then he’d whistled, and laughed, and said: _Wow, he must be_ really _pissed. Do you think we overdid it?_

Fenris slips his hand down to spread his fingers across Hawke’s shoulder, remembering Lavellan’s warnings that Solas may come for his or Hawke’s limbs next. Fenris dares him to try.

“You want a turn?” Hawke asks, lifting his chin.

Fenris shakes his head and stifles a yawn. Hawke leaves him with a kiss on the knuckles and a pat on his thigh. “Alright! Let’s hit that next nest,” Hawke bellows. “I’ll show you a real big one.”

Merrill laughs. She seems no more scathed than she’d been the night before, thankfully. Fenris had begrudgingly passed on Lavellan’s request that she meet him near their camp at dawn. Fenris assumes it either went uneventfully, or didn’t happen at all — the latter being his preference. Merrill can take care of herself, mostly, but no good could come of her meeting with the Iron Bull.

Another yawn, making a stronger case for a nap than the last. Fenris trusts that his strength will return eventually. For now, he’s content to lean back on his hands and feel sweat drip down his shoulders as he watches these misfits attempt to catch fish in the stupidest way possible. Merrill, treading water, the sun returning color to a face that’s been pale with stress for too many days. Shielan floating in her wake, curious eyes peeking over her shoulder. And Hawke, arm plunged under the surface, tongue between his teeth, navigating the unseen hollows like he’d built this cliff himself.

“Oh, Maker.”

A day ago, when the world still hummed with melodies and whispers he now knows were born from lyrium, Fenris wouldn’t have heard Hawke swearing under his breath in the shadow of the cliff. Now, his eyes snap to the man, ready to dive in the lake himself if need be.

One of Hawke’s hands covers his mouth and his silent retching, while the other emerges from the water, tangled in a ball of black fiber. It continues rising, and he pulls up something up from the depths that’s too large to be a fish. Something gray, something bloated, something with one eye swollen shut and the other an empty hole dribbling out green water.

Someone.

* * *

Dhaven is buried under a grove of pines.

There are twenty people to witness it, the same group that had dealt with Nydharani’s burial the previous day. Same people, same place — but yesterday, there’d been grief. Today, exhaustion reigns.

The mages engulf the corpse in a white bath of light — _to cleanse the body_ , as Merrill had explained yesterday, _for the soil, the plants, that animals that may find him_. When it fades, Dhaven’s skin is still just as gray and sagging, his body likely already drained of every last drop of blood even before he’d been dumped in the lake. They strip him of his torn and sullied clothes. Fenris looks away. At least it’s quicker than Nydharani’s final unearthed moments. It had felt like hours watching the volunteers take turns cutting away her robes, the handheld shears doing little to detach the fraying fibers from her blistered skin.

Finally, the mages lower him into a shallow pit; a staff to his left, a branch to his right. They pour dirt over him. Deposit a cone of seeds. Replace the grass and flowers. And it’s like the ground has never been disturbed.

Fenris and Hawke watch the burial from what Hawke deems a respectable distance. A handful of elves cry, though Fenris suspects its more from the memories associated with these funeral rites than any genuine sorrow for this man. One by one, the people gathered have their hands washed in water that the mages make float and swirl mid-air, scrubbing clean the dirt from even under their fingernails. And then they go, leaving only a scattered few to speak in hushed tones and light tiny fires between them.

“What are they doing?” Fenris asks as the scent of smoke drifts to them from Merrill and Shielan as well, who hold something small and white together before Merrill ignites it.

“Hm? Oh.” Hawke shrugs, his shoulders shifting against the tree trunk they’ve found shade under. “Burning letters. Little messages. Same reason they bury the staff and stuff. The Creators deliver them to the spirit, as long as it’s still hanging around. Or something like that.”

A few pine needles fall around them as Hawke tilts his head back. His nails pick at the bark. He won’t make eye contact with Fenris, looking only at the sappy residue he rubs between his fingers. Hawke whispers, “She did a few for Anders.”

Fenris swallows away the memory of white eyes and sallow skin. Hawke’s frown only makes the image more vivid.

“Why do it now?” Fenris asks. “They know their gods aren’t real.”

“What? You talk to the Maker sometimes too. We both do.” At Fenris’s eyebrow raise, Hawke pokes him in the side. “Oh, I hear you. Don’t think I don’t. But you don’t really think he’s listening to every single word, do you?”

Fenris shakes his head.

“Yeah, I’d hope he doesn’t,” Hawke says. “I’d be pissed if he heard all my prayers and still did that to my family.”

Fenris can’t find anything to say to that, so he just takes Hawke’s hand and squeezes. The sap makes their skin stick together.

“I burned a few with her, actually.” Hawke squeezes back. “I get it, sort of.”

Fenris isn’t surprised he hadn’t been invited to that. What message could he have sent that Anders would actually want to receive? _You were right, I was wrong, the rest of the Chantries should burn too?_ Anders’s spirit would have surely burned the note a second time. But something in him still aches at the thought of Hawke and Merrill slipping away to mourn in secret, away from the asshole who would undoubtedly mock them for doing so.

Merrill invites them both to follow her and the rest of the elves back to the lake, where there will be one last meal and round of farewells. They do, though they maintain the same amount of distance as before, leaning their backs against a mossy alcove of the cliff, watching as Merrill and Shielan attempt to mingle.

Fenris imagines the last day of this festival isn’t usually so subdued. There are still traces of what he guesses are normalcy: promises to see each other again, plans to meet in this city or that one in a few years, some details more solid than others. A young woman sitting in the grass, back to back with another woman who could be a copy of herself twenty years from now, both of them strumming some stringed instruments shaped like gourds. But the sides of their palms rest against the strings as they play, muting the sound before it has a chance to bounce off the cliffs.

Fenris hears whispers of the next Arlathvhen’s location — or maybe that’s the decoy place. Either way: it seems that a decade from now, this will all happen again. Hopefully without all of the machinations.

Merrill brings them each an overstuffed wrap, a mixture of dark leaves and drakefish threatening to leak from either end. He’d been looking forward to whatever Hawke had planned for these fish; this certainly isn’t that. Fenris take a dubious sniff of the shiny green sheet of dried fiber holding it all together and gets a whiff of the sea.

The smell brings him back to Kirkwall, drinking on the pier, watching tangles of seaweed get trapped around the wooden pillars. Isabela to his left, making lustful comments over the ships in the harbor. Hawke beside her, blowing Ferelden folk tunes on an empty bottle’s rim. And next to Hawke, Anders. Shooting glares at Fenris behind the row of shoulders on the good days. Watching the storms roll over the horizon with empty, sunken eyes on the bad ones. At the time, Fenris had thought it was the reverse — that the days where Anders graced them with silence were a blessing, even if they did leave Hawke scrambling to find a joke that could make even one of them laugh.

Now, Fenris finds he has no appetite. Ghost or not, Anders is still determined to haunt him.

“Hawke,” he says. “Would you have killed Anders if not for me?”

The wrap stops inches from Hawke’s open mouth. “Geez, warn a guy before you drop a hammer on him,” Hawke murmurs, lowering the half-eaten mess to his lap. “I don’t know, Fen.”

Fenris eyes him from the side, saying nothing.

“Probably not,” Hawke finally concedes. Silence has a way of forcing the truth out of him. “It was my choice in the end, though. Not yours.”

Fenris can’t say that Anders deserved better. But Hawke did. And maybe there was another option, one that didn’t end with Hawke losing yet another member of that ill-matched group he called a family. Imprisonment. Exile. At the least, Fenris could have dealt the blow himself.

Guilt isn’t new to Fenris. It grows in him like a thicket, planting new roots every time fog settles over the trees like it would in Seheron. But it feels different lately: less a reason to hide himself away, and more of an indication that he’s left something unsaid. Now, he feels its vines working through him like the newly black markings over his skin, and he knows its time to trim them.

“I need to tell you something, Hawke.”

“Uh oh,” Hawke says, a droplet of food flying from his mouth.

“I made a deal with Solas.”

Hawke nods slowly. “Right. That’s … why we’re here. You do still remember that, right?”

“Beyond what you know,” Fenris corrects. “He promised your life. If I did as he asked, he swore to keep you safe, even at the end of this world. He’d bring you along to the next one.”

“Ah.” Hawke finishes chewing and swallows, but his jaw keeps moving, like the words have left a sour taste in his mouth. “Yeah, I knew that.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve talked in your sleep for as long as I’ve known you, remember? I heard enough of your little chat with Solas to figure it out. But I gotta say, I was a kinda miffed when Lavellan pieced it together and you still didn’t come clean.”

That’s … _fasta vass,_ of course Hawke had heard it all. He’s known that Hawke’s been privy to all kinds of horrific things from Fenris’s dreams over the years; it’s not uncommon to wake up and find Hawke sitting outside in the morning, looking distant and smelling like that odd calming tea or whatever that Lavellan apparently drinks as well.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Fenris asks.

“Figured it made us even after the whole Skyhold thing.” Hawke yawns and stretches an arm up and around Fenris’s shoulder. He jostles them both. “Come on, you really thought I’d merrily skip off with Solas after all this? I don’t care if his new world is made of gold and meat; the only way I’d set foot in it is if you were right there with me.”

“My hope was that this would enable that.”

“After all the shit we pulled on that guy? No, you knew you were bargaining for one life.”

And Hawke is right, no matter what Fenris tells himself. He’d known this wasn’t what Hawke would want; he’d done it anyways. The concept of a world without Hawke is so grim — both for him and the rest of the people in it — that Fenris still isn’t sure that he regrets it. But when it comes to Hawke’s fate, he knows that Hawke’s desires are the ones that matter most — and if Fenris still wants the right to berate people for not respecting his autonomy, he knows he needs to honor their own. And Fenris _always_ wants the right to berate people.

“I’m sorry,” Fenris says.

Hawke attempts to lift his hand from Fenris’s shoulder, but the sappy residue has his fingers stuck to the cloth. He laughs, and Fenris feels himself pulled in even closer instead. Then, Hawke says, “Okay, but for real this time: no more of this. We’re a team. Both of us go down kicking or we don’t go down at all.”

“A team,” Fenris echos. _Teammate_ seems a strange way to encapsulate all that he feels for Hawke. But if it means no more worrying that Hawke is going to disappear in the night, he’ll accept the idea into the space in his heart the man has claimed.

“Sound good? No more illicit deals.”

“And no more volunteering to stay behind in the Fade.”

Hawke coughs. “Even, like I said.”

Fenris isn’t sure that he agrees with that, but he’s not looking to keep score. “I’m sorry for hiding this from you,” he says.

“It’s alright. We’ve all got our secrets.” Hawke snorts. “We’re still leagues ahead of those other two, aren’t we?”

He makes a gesture towards the eastern brim of the cliff, around where they know Lavellan and Iron Bull have made their hidden camp. On a rational level, Fenris hopes that they’ll put an end to their fraught relationship. On an emotional level, he thinks they deserve each other. For better or for worse.

Fenris lets himself droop against Hawke, grateful for the stability of the arm around his shoulders. He eats, prepping for a long journey ahead on his already tired feet. The food is both more salty and more satisfying than he’d expected.

“Do you hear singing?” Hawke asks.

Fenris listens. He does. The languid, wispy tones sound so much like the melodies that used to underlie every moment that he hadn’t even noticed them. They come from somewhere above, as if the wind has taken to using the trees’ branches as an instrument. But if he focuses, tuning out everything but that distant song, he can make out words like _abelas_ and _serannas_ , and he realizes it’s only been the wind making it sound like more than a single voice.

He listens, and he finds calm. The song fills the silent void he’s been left with better than anything else has as of yet, and he can’t help but dread when it will inevitably fade.

“Well. Guess we should get going soon,” Hawke says. “Nevarra’s gonna be sweltering by the time we get up there.”

The tension returns. Fenris shuts his eyes, breathing in the smoky scent of Hawke’s shoulder and the scent of seaweed still on his lips, and tries to figure out why.

* * *

The well is eager to teach. Nebel learns of a flower, long gone extinct, with lavender petals that would soak up the sun’s light and shine like a torch in the evenings. Rashvine grown from seeds imbued with fire magic can be used as an anesthetic. He tries to take notes, but finds it hard to focus when there’s so many voices competing for his attention; it feels like he’s stepped into a chicken corral with feed in his hands. So instead, he closes his eyes, curls up in his hammock, and just listens.

The well does not apologize for leaving. Nebel begins to doubt that ancient Elvhen even had the word for _sorry,_ and if maybe _ir abelas_ had been a modern creation. But no, that can’t be right. Solas would never use a word the Dalish invented.

In truth, these months of getting the cold shoulder from the well have likely been a blessing. He can’t say he’s missed having an audience to his thoughts, especially the more darker or more intimate ones. But the well had become just one more thing he’d lost, one more way he’d let his people down, one ever-present reminder that he’d chosen to run from life and then ran from that choice too.

The voices don’t offer forgiveness or sympathy or understanding; but when he asks why they’ve returned, he sees a vision of a sky much bluer than the one above him and hears a whisper from one of the faintest voices: _this is a second chance. We trust that you won’t waste it_.

He grins. Good to know that time hasn’t dulled their condescension at all. Maybe one day he’ll establish a real rapport with this thing in his head. Until then, he can put up with them, one curt remark and strange memory at a time. It’s almost like having his own personal Solas to bother both day and night.

_Can you pass my thanks to the one who showed me the shock?_ he thinks. _Fenris lived, thanks to them_.

_We know_ , the chorus says.

And when a single voice whispers, _you’re welcome,_ a faint spark of lightning runs up Nebel’s arm, originating in his fingers and ending in his chest. He shivers. He doesn’t much like that the well can have any physical effects on him, but he figures if they were able to subject him to any worse than this, they would have done it long ago.

Nebel yelps as he finds himself suddenly lifted into the air, hammock and all. Through the slit of the canvas that now squeezes him like a fruit’s peel, he catches a glimpse of Bull’s shit-eating grin in the pre-dawn light. With all the noise of the well, he must not have heard Bull undoing the knots binding it to the trees.

“Bull! Put me down!” he shouts as he thrashes. “I’ll stab you again, I swear I fucking will.”

“Didn’t I already say you ruined your chances with Fenris ‘cause of that? You’ve gotta stop stabbing the men you’re into.” Bull winks. “Or is that a Dalish courting ritual I haven’t heard about?”

Bull doesn’t let him down, but he does extract Nebel from his trappings, lifting him with one arm like a prize as the canvas spills to the ground. Nebel kicks at him, howling with indignant laughter, until finally his arm can wrap around Bull’s neck and his legs can find a steady perch around Bull’s waist.

“Think Fenris can do that?” Bull asks, chest now heaving, grin still shit-eating.

“Hmph.” Nebel runs his thumb across Bull’s collarbone, letting his nail scrape along the skin. “Stop talking about Fenris.”

Nebel covers whatever Bull next had to say with a kiss, deep and insistent, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt on Bull’s chapped skin. Bull returns it, his hand large and firm on the crown of Nebel’s head, and it’s languid, it’s nice, but Nebel wants _more_. He nips at Bull’s bottom lip.

“We should finish packing,” Bull says, pulling away just far enough for his breath to be a tease of heat against Nebel’s mouth.

“You should let me suck your dick.”

Bull’s gaze darkens. He grips Nebel’s waist tighter as Nebel untangles his legs, letting Bull lower him the final few inches to the ground. With his fingers spread over Bull’s navel, Nebel prowls forward until Bull’s back collides with a tree, shaking its trunk and raining down a shower of seeds around them.

“Got me cornered,” Bull says, taking Nebel’s wrist and pressing his lips to the sensitive skin on its underside, and they share one last kiss before Nebel begins to sink to his knees.

“Oh my Bull, my Bull, my Bull,” Nebel whispers through a trail of kisses down Bull’s chest. “Do you know how happy you make me?”

Nebel’s teeth unlatch the buckle of Bull’s belt, the cold and coppery taste on his tongue sending shivers of anticipation down his spine. His fingers slide the leather strap from its loops, and Bull doesn’t need to respond. In the roll of Bull’s hips, the hand in Nebel’s hair that strokes just as much as it pulls, and the hitched whisper of _kadan_ as his lips descend, he hears all the answers that he needs.

* * *

Bull’s cock had been satisfying, like a return to an old friend — if not a little sweatier than Nebel expects a reunion with Dorian or Sera would be. Bull’s mouth around his own dick, so deep that Bull’s nose would brush his stomach with every head-bob, was a feeling so pleasant that he only got the chance to enjoy it for a few minutes before he was coming down Bull’s throat.

“What are you humming?” Bull asks.

“Mmm. It’s nothing.”

Nebel cuts off the tune that had popped into his head, only now realizing he’d been making any noise. The two of them lie on the canvas square that had been the bottom of their tent, too paranoid to set up the entirety of it. Nebel curls tighter against Bull’s side and drapes his arm across Bull’s stomach. The rhythm of Bull’s lungs sounds markedly better than it had when Nebel had woken up like this after he’d passed out in the cave, but the slight hitch on every third inhale has Nebel concocting potions in his head.

“Gotta say, this was a surprise back then,” Bull says. “Never expected the Inquisitor to be so cuddly.”

“And I never expected the Iron Bull to indulge me so much. You’d spoil me rotten if you could.”

“Just givin’ you what you deserve.”

Nebel chooses not to refute that, no matter how much he wants to. There’s a tug at Nebel’s scalp, and then a leaf falls on his nose. He blows it away, laughing under his breath when Bull pulls two more from his hair. He can’t imagine what he’d see if there were any mirrors around here — working ones, that is.

He glances at the frame they’ve covered with the rest of their tent’s canvas and a loose sheet of scattered leaves and pine needles. There shouldn’t be any magic left to it. It still feels like there are eyes on him.

Forcing himself to look away, he asks, “Why do you think Solas cares if I’m alive?”

Bull’s palm trails down Nebel’s spine until it reaches the curve of his ass. “Even ancient elves can’t resist this.”

“I’m serious.”

“Alright, alright.” Bull retracts his hand and scratches at his stubble, as if he hasn’t already thought through the possibilities and come to his own conclusions. “You’ve got an army of his buddies in your head. That’s gotta be worth something.”

“An army? More like a chorus of judgmental elders.”

But Bull’s likely right, even if the specifics may not be. What else makes Nebel unique, if not for having drunk from the well? It’s a small comfort that the vir’abelasan bound him to Mythal, not Fen’Harel himself.

“Whatever it is, I’m not looking forward to it,” Bull says.

“Me either.” Nebel forces his tense shoulders to shrug. “Oh well. What can I do? It’s not like I’m gonna kill myself to stop him.”

_You could, though_.

He sighs. Pretending that thought came from the well won’t do him any good, not when it’s undeniably his own voice needling him.

_And shouldn’t you? If he has plans that hinge on you, your death will be a favor to the world._

Nebel drums a frantic rhythm against the side of Bull’s ribcage. Anything to preoccupy his mind, anything to keep those ideas at bay.

_Tap, tap, tap_.

Bull grabs his hand. “You’re ticklin’ me.”

“Sorry.” Nebel folds his fingers into a fist and lets it fall to Bull’s sternum. Bull covers Nebel’s hand with his own.

“It’s gonna be great to get back to the Chargers,” Bull says. “They’ve been up to trouble. I feel it in my bones.”

“About that.”

Bull’s pulse jumps up. “You are coming, right?”

Nebel runs his hand in a circle on Bull’s skin, encouraging that racing heart to calm. “I will, for a while. We’ll probably need to find a place to hide while this all blows over.” He pushes his tongue into his cheek, scraping the surface with his teeth for a moment, before he finds the courage to say, “And then … I think I’d like to go to Cullen’s place. For a bit.”

Bull stares him down like he’s a client clearly not offering the full truth before trying to sign a contract with the Chargers.

Nebel swallows. “I can grow herbs, make a garden. They could use some painkillers.”

“You don’t always gotta be helpful.”

“I know. This … this is for me.” Nebel sits up fully. Bull does as well. “He’s told me — he has people there who are familiar with the problems templars run into. People who can help them cope.”

Worry shows itself in the lines around Bull’s eye. “You’ve got a thing for elfroot. Nothing close to lyrium.”

“I know. That’s not what I’m talking about.” Nebel keeps his eyes focused on his nails as he runs his fingers along the over-picked skin around them. “He said … when they leave the Chantry, a lot of them see death as their next best option. So he found people and hired them to — I don’t know, help them _not_ do that. Teach them how to … think of something else, I guess.”

He looks to Bull for a reaction and finds none. Nebel hopes he doesn’t misunderstand, thinking that he’s currently itching to … jump from a cliff, or something. No. He wants to live. In this moment, he’s certain of that. But these thoughts aren’t going away, and in another time, when he doesn’t have Bull’s heartbeat in his ear or the kiss of the sun on his cheeks, there’s no telling if those thoughts will make a more compelling argument.

“I think it’ll be better for both of us,” Nebel adds. “A little time to grow on our own, you know?”

Bull’s jaw is tight as he stares at the sky. Nebel waits. He hadn’t expected Bull to like the idea. _Sounds too much like reeducation_ , the Bull in his head had responded again and again as he’d imagined how to break this news. But he resists the urge to reassure him that this is the right choice. It’s decided. He’s going, regardless of what Bull thinks. But he still wants Bull to understand, to support him, to know that Nebel can love him in every tissue and bone and still need this time away. To let him go, knowing it’s not a goodbye.

Finally, Bull says, “Think he’ll let me steal you away for the best missions?”

“When has Cullen ever been able to stop me from anything? He’s not Leliana.”

Bull wraps an arm around Nebel’s shoulders, his thumb fiddling with the fraying hem of Nebel’s sleeve he’d helped shorten. “You sure you’re gonna be alright around all those templars? After all this mess?”

Nebel shrugs. “I mean, I’ve forgiven an ex-Ben-Hassrath. I think I can find it in me to live around some templars.”

Bull stops fiddling. His breathing stills. Nebel smiles at that, counting it down on the small but growing list of times he’s been able to shock the air out of Bull. He presses his lips to Bull’s shoulder to make up for it.

Bull returns the kiss on the tip of Nebel’s ear. “Proud of you, kadan.”

This time, Nebel stills. He lets himself sit in those words, like a ray of warm light filtering through the leaves. And it feels nice, really, so he’s not sure why tears still rise in the corners of his eyes. He blinks them back down. There’s no time for that now. The sun is fully up, a hazy reminder that he can’t linger here forever.

Bull seems to have the same thought, climbing to his feet with a grunt. Nebel accepts the hand up that he’s offered with an exaggerated version of the same grunt. As much as he’d rather stay here, warm and silent and away from the rest of the world, there’s someone else waiting for him. Hopefully.

“Come on.” Bull jerks his thumb in the direction of the hidden mirror. “This thing is giving me the creeps.”

It’s alright, Nebel thinks. They’ll have more time later.

* * *

“You want me to have this?”

“I’d rather not drag it around,” he says to Merrill, sweeping his hand up to indicate the gigantic height of the eluvian in front of them. “Do you … not?”

He’d figured there was a fifty percent chance that Fenris would pass along his message and then another fifty percent chance that she’d even show up. So, bad odds. But then the tip of her staff had poked over the edge of the cliff, and then hands, and then her head, refusing his rushed offer to help her over the ledge.

But he had caught her after all, when the sight of an eluvian standing against a tree had nearly knocked her back to the lake below. That fall isn’t an experience he’d much like to share with anyone.

She stops with her palm pressed to the glass, staring at the point where her eyes should be reflected, if this mirror were any sort of normal. Then she steps back, fingertips lingering for a second before they fall.

“No. It belongs with the People. Not locked up in my workshop,” she says. “And we lost so many artifacts this week. It might be nice for the clans to pass this one around.”

That’s what she says, but she still gravitates back to the mirror, crouching at its base and peering into its crannies and tracing the metalwork that cinches the pane of glass in place. Her mutterings are a mix of common words too niche for anyone outside a college and Elvhen words Nebel is sure only exist now in the most obscure of texts.

And in the vir’abelasan, of course.

Nebel gives her another moment to examine the frame of the eluvian, then coughs and asks, “Well, how about this, then?”

He tells her more of the well — that it’s a wealth of history and culture, untapped in this age. That it would be a shame to let thousands of years of knowledge die with him. From the dawning excitement in her eyes, Nebel gets the feeling that Varric hadn’t included much of this in his letters. Not that Nebel had told any companions besides Bull the full extent of the voices he’d welcomed into his head.

“They have so much to say,” he continues. “Seriously. It’s too much sometimes. And I mean, they’ve got the entirety of ancient Elvhen to teach.” Merrill lets out a sharp gasp. “But I’m not great with languages. It’d be a mess if I tried to compile it.”

Merrill’s hand covers her open mouth as she stares over the horizon, likely pondering through the implications, the possibilities, the wonders she might unlock, the years of work ahead of her.

“I could come up to Kirkwall sometimes,” he says. “You can talk to it through me.”

“I’d like that,” she says.

Both ideas had been Bull’s, truthfully, though he’d been reluctant to volunteer Nebel for the task of dictating the well’s ramblings even as Nebel had wholeheartedly agreed that it was a brilliant idea. Finally, a way to hand off the responsibility and pressure of carrying this thing with him. He wishes he’d thought of it earlier.

He’d figured it would buy Bull a little more goodwill in Merrill’s eyes as well. But like he’d read Nebel’s mind, Bull had propped the eluvian up and then ran off into the woods, shouting “ _don’t mention me_ ” over his shoulder and leaving Nebel with zero chance to argue.

And though Bull may still be around, listening with those well-trained Ben-Hassrath ears, Nebel mentions him anyway.

“Can I ask you one thing?” Nebel waits for her nod, which comes with hesitation. “Back then, when Bull came for you … how did you know he was lying?”

The surprise on her face gives away that it wasn’t a question she was expecting. But she taps her pinky against her chin, seeming to give it serious consideration. “There wasn’t really some secret,” she eventually says. “He just knew too much. That my vallaslin was of Falon’Din. The name of the tea I’d served. It didn’t sit right with me.”

Nebel doesn’t tell her that none of that information had come from the Ben-Hassrath. He doubts there’d been any briefs with information on Merrill’s favorite tea. No, there’d just been late nights gathering herbs outside Haven, with Bull’s curious questions the only thing to keep Nebel’s mind from his freezing hands. He remembers those days when the scenery of the Hinterlands had begun to blend together, and traded stories of home were by far the best entertainment around. Charcoal drawings of vallaslin just to prove that he did, in fact, remember all the variations. He hadn’t realized how carefully Bull had listened.

Maybe it was all reconnaissance. The possibility hadn’t bothered him then, figuring there was little he could say that the Qunari couldn’t find out through other less pleasant means. But thinking of it now makes him feel like he’s back on the boat across the Waking Sea heading to the Conclave, unsteady on his feet, queasy in his stomach, and paranoid of every shem he comes across.

He’ll ask Bull, sometime. He can accept whatever answer it may be.

“When you come, don’t bring him,” Merrill says.

“I won’t.”

She trails her finger along the web of cracks in the eluvian, following line after line until her nail reaches the crater in the center. She glances at the dagger’s hilt that sticks out of Nebel’s belt. He expects a quip about the matching diameters.

Instead, she says, “I think we could have been friends, if things had been different.”

And he has no response to that.

“Now, excuse me, I’m late for — what was it, again? I think we’re cooking some sort of noodles.” She gestures to the eluvian, which rises at her command, floating on a cloud of purple light. “I’ll see if someone wants this.”

“Take care, Merrill.”

The eluvian trails her like a loyal dog as she disappears over the ridge of the cliff. A strange sight from up here, and what must be an even stranger one from below. Nebel hears the creak of stone bending itself into footholds to her liking, and he’s certain that no matter how different things were, he’d still be scared shitless of her.

* * *

Hawke and Fenris are unmistakable, even from a distance. When they drag a body to the shore, gray as the stones it had been caught in, Nebel knows who it must be.

He’d missed Nydharani’s burial, unaware it was even happening. He refuses to miss this one.

They shouldn’t have left Dhaven in Nydharani’s care. Nebel reminds himself that they had no way of knowing what she’d planned, nor was it likely that she’d even committed to serving Solas at that point, but the reassurances do nothing for him. The regret still feels floats in his stomach, stiff and bloated.

Bull offers to keep him company, but his hands are full of half-prepped food, and Nebel knows how important it is that they have something to eat on the road. It’s probably not going to be a good idea for them to stay at any inns or eat at any taverns while Bull is still on the Templar Order’s most-wanted list. Even if Nebel’s aching neck deeply misses mattresses.

By the time the burial starts, Nebel has his legs dangling over a ledge he’d found about a third of the way down the cliff, where the rock formations cast shadows that hide him from any wandering eyes. The air tastes of the lake with every inhale, cold and soothing, like the water itself is filling his healing ribcage. The scent of burnt vallas’din written to Dhaven’s lingering spirit and the wistful melodies of a strummed numinera waft up to him, and he lets his eyes drift shut.

When footsteps come overhead, he presses himself against the stone and holds his breath, hand on the hilt of his knife. He’s not taking another plunge — although, there’d be a strange humor in falling directly on top of an already prepped funeral. He shoves away the temptation.

A head peers over the edge. Marelwyn. The footsteps came from Bull’s direction, so Nebel would place bets on how she knew where to find him.

He waves, uncertain. She returns it, mirthless, then climbs down to his side and sits beside him, legs crossed and head tilted back against the rocks. She looks like all of Nebel’s companions had after that first day in the Hissing Wastes, when they’d realized all they had to look forward to for a week was sun and sand and misery.

“You’re not down there,” he says when it becomes clear that she’s not going to speak first.

“Are you judging?” He shakes his head in response. “I don’t know those people. They didn’t know him. And I don’t know that I can put on a face sad enough for their liking.”

He gets that, in a flipped sort of way. There isn’t room for her anger at a burial, and there hadn’t been room for his sadness in the stone halls of Skyhold. Though he does suspect — or hope, at least — that people would be understanding of _some_ of her bitterness towards Dhaven. The man did attempt murder, after all.

Something tears to his side. He looks down to see Marelwyn with a bundle of elfroot in one hand, ripping a scrap of parchment with the other.

“Want some?” she asks.

He laughs and reaches for his bag. “Not right now. Use my pipe, though.”

“Ah, I knew I had good reason to like you.”

She admires the simple olive wood pipe as she fills it, lighting her match with ease and offering it to the wind to blow out. She smokes without a cough.

“Are you doing alright?” he asks. A dumb question, maybe, but he doubts there’s any good ones here.

“I’m … okay,” she says. “My father is one story. But Nydharani … ” She blinks rapidly, and she’s quick to take a hit of the pipe and play off the wetness in her eyes as a reaction to the smoke. She exhales a cloud, and when it’s drifted away, the tears are gone. “I’ve never been so thankful to have a long trip ahead of me. I could use the distraction.”

“Did you need someone to escort you home?” Bull wouldn’t mind the detour, not if it was for a good cause.

“The apprentices and I will be fine.” She taps the pipe against her thigh, a soft patter like rain on the sails of an aravel. “I just don’t know how to tell my mom.”

For lack of anything to say, he offers his hand. She smiles at the sight, a little lopsided, a little sad, then takes it, and their clasped palms rest on the cold stone of the gap between them. It’s healing, he thinks to himself. A reminder that the spirit doesn’t need to travel alone.

“You know, you could join them down there, if you wanted.” She points the bowl of the pipe down at the gathering of people below. “It’s obvious she was responsible for at least some of this. No reason you couldn’t pin the rest on her.”

“I can’t prove she forged that letter. Or started the fire,” Nebel says.

She rounds the pipe on him this time, aiming it towards his chest like a dagger. “You didn’t prove you did that either.”

“Better safe than sorry.“

The column of smoke rising from the pipe stutters, disturbed by her annoyed scoff. If not for the funeral happening at this moment, he’d dig into why this bothers her so much. She understands more than most the threat that is Fen’Harel, having nearly ended up in his … prison, or paradise, or whatever it is Solas had planned for them. So she should realize that deterring even a single elf from joining his army is worth any cost.

“More people than you think will figure it out,” she says.

“Maybe. I’ll come clean after we stop him.” He laughs at her skeptical glower and lifts his hand in defense. “Really. I swear.”

He has nearly a decade of age on her, but she still eyes him like he’s an exhausting younger sibling. Then she sighs, and turns over the pipe, letting the cliff’s breeze claim the ash as its own. He expects her to leave. Instead, she refills the pipe, gaze lifting to the sky as she settles in for another bowl.

“Was there something else?” he asks, not because he wants her to go, but because her brow has furrowed in the exact way elfroot is meant to relieve.

“Sorry. Little mental debate,” she mutters. She lets go of his hand, reaching into her overcoat to search for something inside. “So, I was looking through the records that survived.” She pulls out a page of parchment, yellowed at the edges, blackened in a corner. “And I found this.”

He takes it. The ink of the words scrawled across the page has smudged in places, but it’s still legible.

“It’s a scribe’s record,” she says. “From three Arlathvhens ago.”

Dread makes him hold his breath. Curiosity makes him read.

_The childbearing was not kind to Belgar’lin. She fell sick in the final months. She’d chosen a spot for him on a hill where the halla grazed, so his spirit could play with them once before it left us._

_He was expected under the new moon. He arrived early, and his father Eralaim was already praying to Falon’Din for an easy journey to the Beyond. But our child of the waning moon — our Nebelir’vunema — he was ever determined to survive. And so he did._

_He was quiet for only a moment, before he began kicking and screaming. And he hasn’t stopped since — except for when he wants something._

_I pray to Mythal to guide him. To Andruil, to give him the strength to carry the Lavellan name. And to Sylaise, to give him all the happiness he can hold._

_I know he will make us proud._

The paper’s edges shake with stuttering flaps as the wind passes, like a bird taking flight for the first time since escape, unsure that its wings will still carry it. Nebel presses the parchment to his chest, and, finding his voice again, breathes, “Can I keep this?”

“Are you serious? This is the record of the Inquisitor’s birth, how could I let you steal such an important piece of history?” Marelwyn smiles. “Of course you can.”

“You’d make a good Keeper.”

“Maybe my magic will grow in one day.” She empties the elfroot ashes with a few taps over the cliff, only half-smoked. “Now, I definitely don’t have the authority to do this, but I will anyways.” She extends her hand, the pipe laid flat on her palm. “Come visit our clan sometime. We’re small. And growing smaller by the day. We could always use more people during the holidays.”

He takes the pipe. “I … that’s kind of you. I will consider it, if I’m nearby.”

She rolls her eyes as he tucks away both the paper and his pipe. “See, you say that, but I know you’re not going to. You think I’m just being polite, don’t you?” He does. She nods at his silence like it’s confirmation. “So how about this? The rebirth of the moon is happening soon, right? We’ll be in the southern part of the Highlands. Join us.” She winks. “It’s an appropriate one, isn’t it?”

He bites his tongue. “I will see if I can make it.”

“And I will expect you there.” She stands, stretching her arms high above her. “And tell Bull he still owes me three sovereigns.”

Under where she sat, a short stack of parchment remains forgotten. Nebel slaps his hand down to keep it from blowing away, and though he shouts after Marelwyn, she continues scaling the cliff, pausing only to shout, “See what you can come up with.”

He takes the papers in his lap, remembering at the last second to call out a confused _dareth shiral_ and a quieter _thank you_.

The top page has three lines, each one struck through with slashes of ink.

_~~The asshole who showed me how to shoot.~~ _

_~~The bastard who taught me to never back down.~~ _

The third is covered in furious scribbles, illegible.

His throat tightens as he flips through the remaining pages. A stain of black in the top right corner. Blank. Blank. Somebody is going to have to fill them. He can hear the Hearthmaster in his ear, reminding him that it’s bad luck to waste even a seed of ironbark, let alone the pulp it takes to make parchment.

The burial is finished by the time Bull comes to him. Nebel is grateful for the food and music below; though the shadows hide an elf well enough, a horned man scaling the cliffs would definitely attract attention if not for the distraction.

“Hey,” Bull says as his feet hit the ledge.

“Hey,” Nebel returns.

“Whatcha got there?” Bull asks. His shoulder brushes Nebel’s own when he sits, and he stays leaned in close as he takes the offered stack of paper. “Oh. You gonna do some then? A … what’d you call it, a din’andirth?”

“You remembered.”

Bull hands back the pages. “‘Course I did.”

Nebel runs his thumb over the discarded lines. Ink smudges off on his skin, and he rubs it between the rest of his fingers. Someone else will handle Dhaven’s, certainly. But the others —

“I don’t know,” he says. “Writing it down feels so … ”

He makes a loose gesture of a circle in the air, and glances to Bull, asking wordlessly that he understand.

“Then don’t,” Bull says. “Tell me about them instead.”

Nebel’s breath catches.

Could he?

He doesn’t know. But he looks into Bull’s eye and in it, he sees himself — in a field under a starry sky, in a messy bed where Bull’s feet hang over the edge, at an ale-soaked table surrounded by the Chargers, sharing stories of the family he’d lost and the life he’d left with them.

Not today, not now. Maybe not until he’s returned from Cullen’s sanctuary, but someday, someday —

“Okay,” he says. “I think I can do that.”

He leans against Bull and imagines what stories he’d like most. There was the incident where Linnarel somehow lost an aravel, and by the time they’d found it, a wyvern had made it into a nest for its eggs. Or the time he’d been caught having sex with both the First _and_ the warleader of a visiting clan, and he’d ended up hiding naked in a tree for hours to avoid Deshanna’s scolding.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, or when his exactly his eyes drifted shut, but he blinks them open when he hears a rumble. Someone is singing — he looks to Bull, then realizes the low, meandering voice is actually many voices, and it’s in Elvhen, even if he only recognizes a few words here and there. He leans forward to watch the elves below — Bull slaps an arm around his shoulders immediately, tugging him back an inch — but most people are eating still, and the numineras are playing in the wrong key.

_A gift_ , a voice says from the back of his mind. _From our time._

_Oh_. The chorus begins again, slow and languid, and it feels, somehow, like the song was made for this place. A breeze blowing ripples over an emerald lake. Pines drooping under the broad shadows of passing clouds.

He listens.

And the next time around, he sings with them. A whisper at first, and then the voices in his head are deafening, and he has to match them to even hear himself. Bull goes still.

When he sings it a second time, they translate.

_We are the dew that drips, the soil it falls to_

_The bites you take, the blood in your mouth_

_And trust —_

Nebel heaves in a breath, unable to remember the last time he sang so long or so loud.

_And trust —_

_That the water will return to the stream_

_That we’ll meet again there, where the river flows into the sea._

The world goes silent. Nebel hangs his head, refilling his lungs, one deep inhale at a time. Strangely, the song begins again — and this time, he’s sure it’s not from his head.

A voice from above singing in long-forgotten Elvhen. He’s certain he’s accidentally made history, yet again.

He looks to Bull, ready for his amused smile, his quips about Nebel’s timbre —

_Fenedhis_ , no, this can’t be right —

“Bull? Are you okay?” Nebel rises on his knees and grips Bull’s shoulder. He gives it a light jostle, trying not to let panic show in his fingers. “What’s wrong?” Bull just stares at him as if Nebel has asked the stupidest question imaginable, and another tear trails down his cheek. “Come on. You don’t cry, you’re the Iron Bull.”

“Yeah, I do.” Bull flips up his eyepatch and wipes away the pooled wetness with his thumb. “Cried over you in that cave. And when you wouldn’t wake up after I took off your arm.”

Nebel shakes his head. He didn’t know that, he really didn’t — he always imagined Bull stoic in some corner or beating himself with a stick until he bruised. Nothing like this. Nebel pulls at his sleeve and blots away the tears, but oh, Creators, they just keep falling. “Vhenan, please.” Nebel sinks back, sitting on his heels, and holds Bull’s wrist in his hand. “Bull,” he chokes out. “You’re gonna make me cry too.”

“Good.”

Bull doesn’t stop, but there’s a sense of peace in the way his jaw relaxes, in the shine of his eye, even as Nebel tenses. He squeezes Bull’s arm, and the bones rattle in his grip. He _can’t_ , he shouldn’t, there’s no reason to now — but another of Bull’s hot tears falls on his knuckles, and the fight is over.

A hand comes to rest on back of his scalp, gentle as always, and it pulls. His chin hits Bull’s shoulder as the world blurs into a mess of colors, and he gasps in one last breath before it all unravels.

The song continues all the while.

* * *

The song sounds like the ones that seemed to grow in rural Tevinter fields, where crooning voices would rise from figures that only ever looked like silhouettes to Fenris as he’d walk beside Danarius’s carriage. That amalgamation of Common, Tevene, and Elvhen had been just as indecipherable as these words that, somehow, seem to come from nowhere.

But by the time more than a handful of people have noticed the song, it’s stopped — only to be replaced by a higher, more lilting voice. Merrill. She carries the tune weightlessly as she walks to stand beside the two women playing those stringed instruments, and every conversation disappears. The second time, they begin to pluck out accompanying notes. The third time, other voices join in, dissonant and wordless. Hawke takes his hand as harmonies take shape.

“She’s got some pipes, huh?” Hawke whispers. “Not like my squawking. Did you know the barmaids at the Hanged Man used to give me a discount if I _stopped_ singing?”

“I remember.”

Hawke grins and rustles their hands. “Wanna get going then?” Hawke points at Merrill and Shielan, whose hands are intertwined as well. “After we snag them for a goodbye.”

Right. It’s time, then. The Estate is waiting for them, their little hideaway from the world. Merrill will help Shielan get settled into the alienage, and she’ll adjust, eventually. Fenris and Hawke will venture to far off places, chasing slavers over the northern sands and sleeping under unfamiliar skies. Fenris’s throat dries at the very thought.

It’s time.

Fenris takes a gulp of water. It does nothing for his thirst.

The song restarts, Merrill’s voice at the head of it.

“Hawke,” Fenris says. “How would you feel about returning to Kirkwall?”

“You mean, like, for a visit?”

“Longer.”

Hawke drops his hand. He looks as if an arrow has been lodged in his chest and he’s caught in that split-second before the pain has reached his nerves. “You know we still have bounties on our heads. Even more so now.”

“Do you doubt Varric when he says he can handle that?”

Hawke crosses his forearms in an _X_ in front of his chest. “Never.” On the way back to his sides, Hawke’s hands slide down both of Fenris’s arms. The graze of his thumbs sends chills through Fenris’s veins. Hawke frowns. “But what brought this on?”

Fenris considers what to say. He looks out over the lake, reflecting a green version of the world on its surface, the air smelling of a diluted brine. He sees Merrill saying something in Shielan’s ear between the verses, making the shorter woman have to stifle her laughter.

He sees a crowd, cleaning the scraps of food off their shared bowls, singing a song in unison that they learned only moments ago.

He whispers, “I miss the sea.”

Hawke gives him a look that says he knows just how fake that answer is. Then, a smile stretches across his face. “I’d love to, Fen.”

The answer is the water he needed. But while the idea had only come to Fenris a moment ago, he’d still been sure Hawke was going to jump on it immediately. The hesitation is … troubling.

“Will it be hard for you?” Fenris asks. Even with their manor burned to the ground, he knows the Hawke family lives on in every brick and corner of Kirkwall.

Hawke’s eyes shine with wetness, but it doesn’t fall. He shrugs with a smile. “No harder than killing slavers is for you.” He looks to Merrill, who sways with the melody as if caught in a trance. “You wanna tell her?”

“Me?”

“It was your idea.”

The song stops, and Merrill’s eyes flutter open. Fenris doesn’t even need to wave to catch her attention. Her eyes land on the two of them, and she comes bounding over, Shielan at her heels.

Hawke compliments her singing. Merrill offers no explanation of the origin of the song, though Shielan grins like she knows a secret.

And then, for once, Hawke stops talking.

Fenris coughs. He knows the gap is for him. It still feels terribly strange to fill it.

“Would you mind … “ He starts, then stops, then shoots a glance to Shielan. “Would you both be comfortable if we joined you in your travels?”

Merrill frowns, and the wind around them suddenly seems so much colder. The alienage relies on her; she probably doesn’t need the misfortune that clings to Hawke and Fenris like a shadow. This week was enough of a reminder of the issues they’ll always carry with them.

Then Merrill tilts her head, and Fenris realizes it’s not displeasure making her look so concerned. It’s only confusion.

“You mean … You’re coming to Kirkwall?” Merrill asks.

“If you’ll have us,” Fenris says.

Merrill’s eyes widen, and when Hawke wiggles his brows at her, she looks like she might burst. Her hands clasp over her chest, and she looks ready to scream agreements up the cliffs, but then she stops. She looks instead to Shielan, who doesn’t seem to know what to do with all the eyes on her.

“Shielan. You _can_ say no,” Fenris assures her.

Shielan’s shoulders drop from her ears. She sizes up Hawke, who may as well be a Qunari in comparison to her slight form. But then she glances at Fenris and the space between him and Hawke — or the lack of it, more accurately — and the tension in her brow eases.

“You’re more than welcome,” she says, and it’s like Merrill is a bottle of sparkling wine with its cork popped.

“Of course you can come! Oh, the city has changed so much, I can’t wait to show it to you,” Merrill says. She reaches out to them, and Fenris steps to the side, making room for her to envelop Hawke in an embrace.

Oddly, she grabs Fenris’s hands instead.

“There’s this new garden,” she says to him, “and there are these roses that look like sunrises — it’s in Hightown, so we’re not really allowed in, but it’s a wonderful place to visit at night. Ah! Have I told you about the new library in the alienage? Well, it’s more like a box, but — “ Merrill bites her lip, cheeks gone pink, and drops Fenris’s hands. “Sorry. I got too excited.”

“I’d like to see it,” Fenris says.

Merrill stumbles under the strength of Hawke’s hand landing on her back. Fenris smiles at the friendly slap, more than used to it by now. “I’m going to _fuck up_ some of that Kirkwall fried pork,” Hawke says. “That city doesn’t have any idea what’s coming.”

“A chill will run through Aveline the second you get off the boat,” Fenris murmurs.

“Then she’ll have time to prep the welcome party!” Hawke laughs.

Shielan tilts her chin. “Aveline?”

“Oh, right, yes.” Merrill crosses her arms over her chest, one finger tapping her lips. “You’ll — hmm, well, she might scare you a bit at first. But she’s a sweetheart, underneath all the … iron.”

Fenris thinks it will be weeks before the grin fades from Hawke’s face. “We’ll meet you at the Montsimmard inn, yeah?” Hawke says. “We’ve got one last errand to run.”

Fenris has a feeling he knows what this errand is, and while he’d planned to take care of it eventually, he’s grateful that Hawke saved him the discomfort of being the one to make the suggestion.

But still, no one moves. It’s only a short farewell, and yet it feels like there’s stones weighing down Fenris’s pockets, and his jaw tightens at the thought of leaving without emptying them first.

Hawke looks between Fenris and Merrill, then makes pointed eye contact with Shielan, then throws her a not-so-hidden gesture pointing towards the lake’s edge.

“See you there,” Shielan says as she follows Hawke, leaving Fenris face to face with a blatantly surprised Merrill.

Even with all of his hesitation about leaving, he’s still not sure what to say. He glances at the black trails leading up his arms and tries to imagine what she’d felt as the lyrium had died by her hand. Scared? Happy? Powerful? Maybe one day he’ll ask her, but he knows that’s not the topic weighing him down.

Two fingers land on his forearm, right where the main trail branches off into a dozen smaller ones. He looks up to see Merrill offering a knowing, soft smile.

“I’m glad you came here, Fenris.”

“I am, as well,” he says, and with one last squeeze of her hand, he lets her go.

* * *

“Come to see us off?” Iron Bull asks.

Fenris mutters, “It was on the way.”

Which is not entirely untrue, but they likely could have otherwise avoided scaling the cliffs using the footholds Merrill left behind.

Lavellan hunches over a few yards away, frantically babbling into a glowing pink crystal. “I swear, I am completely, totally fine. I swear!” He shoots an apologetic glance their way. “No, no, you don’t need to talk to Bull.” Iron Bull and Hawke snort in unison. “I’m so sorry, I promise I will tell you everything as soon we’re settled for the night.” Lavellan’s voice drops to a hush, though Fenris still hears as he whispers, “Don’t worry, Bull will be there too. We got back together.”

The crystal’s glow fades, quiet and dull for a moment before it bursts back into light and a voice comes roaring from between Lavellan’s fumbling fingers. “I’m sorry, _what_ did you say? Maker give me strength, if you two had the nerve to break up and _not even tell me_ — “

“Nice work with Solas’s gal,” Iron Bull says. Fenris tears his attention from the disaster pacing between two trees and shrugs in response.

“Sorry about the trick,” Hawke says. “Couldn’t risk you two spilling the beans.”

“I knew something was up,” Iron Bull says.

Hawke winks. “Sure you did.”

Lavellan sidles up to Iron Bull’s side, mouthing an apology as he tucks away the crystal. Fenris has never seen one outside Tevinter; he adds it to the list of goods to check for in the crates of dead slavers’ wagons. Even if he can only find two unmatched stones, he’s certain that Merrill could figure out some way to pair them.

Hawke gives Lavellan an upward nod. “So what’s your plan then? Dig a hole and stay in it ’til this blows over?”

“The Divine can smooth this out. Maybe.” Lavellan looks even less sure than he sounds. “I helped get her elected, I think she owes me.”

“If you need to hide, we’ve got a place,” Hawke says. “It’s not much, but … you’re welcome there. Just don’t go touching my shit.”

Lavellan looks to Fenris with wide eyes, as if Hawke would dare to offer such a thing without first running it by Fenris. Iron Bull looks just as surprised. Fenris nods in confirmation.

“Thank you,” Lavellan says, and when he settles into a smile, it strikes Fenris that there’s something different about him. He’s … looser, maybe. Fenris no longer gets the feeling that one wrong word or sound will have him bolting into the woods.

Hawke passes over the map they’d prepared. “If we end up in the same town, let’s grab a drink, yeah?” Then he turns away from Fenris, and lifts his hand to his mouth, the exact gesture concealed. Fenris still hears the wink when Hawke mock-whispers, “Or something else.”

Lavellan covers a snicker with his palm. Iron Bull glances innocently away, but he does nothing to hide the smirk on his face.

Fenris doesn’t know how or when these three formed some joke he’s not a part of, but he’s not happy about it. “Explain, Hawke.”

Hawke pats Fenris’s shoulder. “Ah, Fen. Some other time.”

“ _Or_ the four of us can get to know each other better, somewhere a little more private,” Lavellan says, with a strange look.

A _suggestive_ look, Fenris realizes after a moment where he’s once again the only one not grinning.

“Absolutely not,” he says.

“Really?” Lavellan looks genuinely surprised. “Come on, how often do you get four handsome men who all — “

“No.”

“Okay, alright. I won’t ask again. But the offer’s on the table,” Lavellan says. He should take it as a compliment that Fenris does nothing more than roll his eyes. From the growing smile on Lavellan’s face, it seems he does. “One last thing,” Lavellan continues, voice dropping into a more serious register. “If Solas comes to you again — “

“Then I will tear his flimsy spine from his back,” Fenris says. Iron Bull nods like the answer is a taste of fine wine, but Lavellan looks to find it bitter and unsatisfactory. Fenris folds his arms over his chest and mutters, “We’ll keep you informed.”

Then, at last appeased, Lavellan holds out his hand. Fenris scowls, but once again, Lavellan insists. He waits with an amused huff while Fenris takes a second to first touch the metal of Hawke’s sword — there’s no telling what could happen otherwise. But when Fenris eventually takes the offered hand, there’s no sparks. Only their shared breaths of relief, and the twitch in Fenris’s lips at what might be the most prolonged handshake in his life.

“Stay safe,” Lavellan says.

“Avoid cliffs,” Fenris responds.

And while Iron Bull winces, Lavellan bursts into laughter. Fenris definitely doesn’t let a smile crack across his face. Certainly not.

When he’s finally finished, Lavellan meets Fenris’s eyes and gives him a firm nod — and as conclusive as it feels, Fenris somehow knows they’ll be seeing each other again soon enough. Trouble has a way of following him and Hawke, and this man has shown himself to be nothing but.

Lavellan wraps his fingers around Iron Bull’s wrist and tilts his head almost all the way up to the sun to look at him. “Let’s go, vhenan.”

They veer off the road to Montsimmard, heading south instead, and they make it to the shade of the trees before Lavellan makes attempts to use Iron Bull’s horns to scramble up onto his shoulders; Iron Bull catches him at his ribs and lifts him the rest of the way up, and they go, laughing in time with the crows above. Hawke throws a wave to their backs. Fenris wonders what they’ll think of the Estate — if they’ll also notice that the left half of the bed is softer and fight to claim it first each night. If they’ll put the rain barrels to good use. If they’ll find the grove of apple trees by the brook, or realize that the sweetest apples grow downstream.

“Ready to go see what’s left?” Hawke asks. “Here’s hoping they didn’t rebuild the Hanged Man _too_ well. The rot gave it charm.”

“I’m certain they kept some around, just for you.”

“Aw.”

A cloud finishes passing overhead. The returning sun finds Hawke, as it always does, and the specks of gold in his eyes begin to dance like over-served bar patrons.

Fenris brushes the back of his hand down Hawke’s cheek, imagining himself pulling the last of the tension away with his fingers. “Thank you,” he finds himself saying. “For letting me join you in this life.”

Hawke ducks his head, but Fenris gets the privilege of seeing red bloom across his freckles. “Geez, Fen. You always say the sappiest stuff, right when I least expect it.”

Fenris smirks and presses a kiss to the corner of Hawke’s mouth. He could stay here and admire Hawke’s smile forever, brilliant and shining and smelling vaguely of the sea, but Hawke takes his hand and returns the kiss to his knuckles, whispering words of love that have Fenris flushing in turn. Then Hawke pulls Fenris down the road, towards the town where billows of smoke rise from chimneys and two friends are waiting with cards and drinks at the ready.

And it’s a bright, windy day in spring when Fenris returns home, Hawke’s name on his lips and the taste of salt already on his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it all the way here, thank you - seriously. If something here resonated with you, I'd love to hear it. If you are now obsessed with noodling, then you and I are kindred spirits. Either way, I'd love to hear what you thought (and believe me, there's no such thing as a comment too long or too short, I love them all).
> 
> Stay safe, stay kind. You deserve happiness.
> 
> <3


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